


Neptune

by SilverLining2k6



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:32:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 109,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverLining2k6/pseuds/SilverLining2k6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series reboot fic. 22 'episodes', 1 over-arching mystery, 3 mini-arcs, Dozens of cameos, plus the usual focus on love, friendship, and family. Eventual LoVe and even some MaDi. Veronica has had it with life as a homicide detective and returns home for the first time since leaving for her FBI internship. She doesn't know something followed her home, and it's not a puppy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Before Neptune

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Tumblr User lilamadison11 for the beautiful fan art!!

[ ](http://imgur.com/Nyxt0QE)

**Prologue - San Diego, California**

_He watches through binoculars from his fifth floor hotel room as the aged wood screen door bursts open, snapping its chain and slamming against the wall. It bounces off, only to be slammed back again by the enraged woman tearing out of the small bungalow._

_He often watches her._ _Sometimes, like this, from afar. Sometimes, from nearby, where_ _her shoulders tense and tighten, as if she can physically feel his eyes upon her._ _Sometimes close enough where he can see the hairs lifting on the back of her neck - his cue to melt back into the crowd. But never, in all of his watching, has he seen her in a rage like this._

_Nearly tripping down the three cement steps, the small blonde homicide detective rights herself and stalks to the front gate. She fumbles with the latch, but the mechanism eludes her, causing her to lose her battle for professionalism. She pulls back her heeled foot and kicks the wooden structure. She freezes for a moment, her face reflecting her shock at the loss of her tightly held control. But control once lost, no longer feels as necessary, so she kicks again. And again, and again and again. Wood splinters and he thinks she may have broken toes from the way she yelps and grabs at her foot. She shakes the gate furiously, trying to rip it off its hinges._

_Her face contorts in despair. Failure. He reaches a hand between his legs, stroking himself, drunk on the knowledge that he put that look on her face. He orchestrated her failure. Like he's done twice before._

_He can tell from her expression she's finally made the connection. He's been careful to ensure each victim, each cause of death, was as dissimilar from the others as possible, but he knew she would figure it out eventually. Counted on her intuition._

_Uniformed SDPD officers come running from the other side of the crime scene tape. One of them manages to get the gate open. Hands reach for her. Try to hold her still. She shakes them off, limping out to the road, aiming for the refuge of her car._

_The door opens on a parked Town Car, and her Lieutenant emerges, calling after her. She doesn't stop walking, so he runs to catch up, grabbing her by the arm. She spins around, fists flying, and blood spurts from her superior's nose. She yells something, and resumes her trek to her vehicle, pulling away with a trail of black tire marks._

_He lowers the binoculars and finishes himself off to a fantasy he's imagined hundreds of times, perfected by repetition. Detective Veronica Mars, on her back, golden hair spread around her like a halo. His hands on her throat as he chokes the life out of her. Eyes bulging, face purple. He lets out an ugly grunt as he feels his release._


	2. Episode One/Part One - Neptune, California Population 15126

**August 2013**

**'Neptune 3/4 miles'** the green sign warns in white block print, but the blonde in the black 2008 Sebring convertible barely registers. She's driven this stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway countless times before; knows the landmarks by heart. Pass up the first exit next to the giant boulder, and get off at the second, by the overpass spray painted with  _Raul + Belinda 4ever_ in large red letters.

Today, however, the girl feels the need to shake things up. She's a different person now, so when she sees the boulder, she makes a last-minute decision to exit the highway.

The origins of boulder itself are a Neptune mystery - the car-sized rock just appeared one night at the side of the highway, and not being an eyesore, nobody ever got around to having it hauled away. Only two members of the Fitzpatrick family know the rock marks the final resting place of Gustavio Toombs.

At the bottom of the ramp, the driver takes a moment to push a few loose strands of hair behind her ears, thankful that she secured her hair in a tight bun before departing San Diego. She plugs her iPod into the auxiliary port, and sets it to shuffle before making a left turn onto Oceanside Blvd.

_Time...time...time...see what's become of me._  The Bangles' 'Hazy Shade of Winter' starts up, and the girl behind the wheel can't help but press the gas pedal a little harder than necessary as she taps out a one-two one-two-three beat on the steering wheel.

To the right, the Albacore Club Marina stretches out in both directions as far as the eye can travel. The ocean is calm this morning, shimmering with a soft golden glow. The perfect day for boating, as evidenced by the countless yachts and sailboats already bobbing on the gentle waves.

A mile down the road, the driver makes another left onto Summer Heights Rd, drives under the highway overpass, and heads up into the twisting-turning roads of Neptune Hills. As she draws nearer to the heart of the 90909, the large houses give way to stately gated estates complete with stables and tennis courts. This is old money. Fortunes handed down for generations. Pomeroys. Gants. Those born here go on to become senators, philanthropists and publishing tycoons.

The Sebring turns right onto Brinsdale Gardens heading into new money territory. These sparkling estates are even larger, and populated by software moguls, producers, and self-made millionaires. Sports cars line nearly every driveway like neon signs saying ' _midlife crises taking place here_ '.

The driver makes a left onto Wood Hill Drive and pauses across from number 4815 - a glass monstrosity and one of the largest houses in Neptune. A new family lives here now. The past has been overwritten. No secrets remain to be discovered in heating ducts or under loose paving stones. Even the pool where her best friend took her last breath had been dug up years ago. Nothing remains of Lilly Kane.

The car pulls away.

 

Inside 4815 Wood Hill, twelve year-old Carolee Berke, unnoticed in a dark corner of the library, observes her beloved father pressing himself against the rear of Louisa the housekeeper, while he gropes at her breast. Louisa's tightly clenched jaw and the tear running down her cheek are clear indicators that his attention is not welcome.

So much for the 'No means no' lectures.

 

At the stop sign, a right turn onto Westchester Way will lead all the way down into Neptune proper. The Bangles give way to Pink's ' _Please Don't Leave Me_ ' on the stereo, as the Sebring takes a left instead.

The girl behind the wheel is not sure why she parks the car outside of the gates of 118 Canyon View. There's nothing to see here but charred ruins.

This place had once been inhabited by the most vile excuse for a human being, and she should never have been drawn here. But some of her happiest moments took place here as well, during those idyllic two months before everything went to hell. Again.

She hasn't pined for him. She's moved on with her life in the last six years. She's dated, both seriously and casually. Had an intense, (somewhat) fulfilling career. Raised a few house plants. This blonde is not a piner.

But most people have that...someone. When it's late at night and you're too damn exhausted to keep up your guard, there's that one face that springs to mind. The symbol of roads not taken. And sure, sometimes she speaks his name to the air. Draws out the first syllable. It's a nice name. Feels good on the tongue.

For all she knows, He's long gone now. She's resisted any impulses to use her department resources to check up on him. She's turned off the TV the one or two times she heard him mentioned.

His name is forbidden when she speaks to Mac, Wallace, or her father. She doesn't hate him - far from it - but what news could they possibly bring her? He's engaged? He's married? He has two kids? Or the opposite end of the spectrum: He's hit rock bottom? Succumbed to the alcoholism that was always a possibility? Graduated to harder substances? Either he's moved on spectacularly, or he's failed to. Either option makes her stomach knot up.

She's betting on married. Months earlier, during a phone conversation with her dad, he'd let slip the ' _L-word_ '. She'd shut him down immediately, but couldn't stop herself from dwelling later in bed. He'd brought the name up out of the blue, which indicated news of some type, and his voice hadn't been dire, so it wasn't news of death or injury. He's probably married or about to be. That has to be it.

Does that mean he's still here in town?

Doesn't matter. She won't be seeking him out. Quite the opposite.

The Sebring backs out of the driveway, and this time when it comes to Westchester Way, it makes the right-hand turn. Follows the road as it twists and turns out of the hills, past 'Software Circle' where the technology firms surround their king. Kane Software - still thriving, despite the sordid past of its founder.

 

At this very moment, said founder sits behind his large mahogany desk in the largest office having his morning mope. It's the early hours - before the cubicles begin filling up with laughing employees, before the six hours straight of pointless meetings - when he counts his losses: Lianne - the love of his life, Lilly - the daughter who was his joy, Celeste - the wife who was his bedrock-

A tap on the door interrupts his reverie.  "Mr. Kane? Can I get you some coffee?"

The road winds back towards the ocean.

Past the shopping district where upscale restaurants alternate with designer stores: Coach, Fossil, Louis Vuitton, Ann Taylor, Banana Republic.

Past the Neptune Grand, where the driver intentionally blanks out her mind. No point in dwelling on the past.

 

Inside room 212 - one of the smaller budget rooms - the hotel manager, Jeff Ratner wakes suddenly with a shiver and wonders why it feels like somebody just walked over his grave.

 

Westchester ends back at Oceanside - miles South of where she started - and the Sebring turns left.

'Panic Switch' by Silversun Pickups begins playing, and once again the driver feels the impulse to press the pedal to the metal. She indulges herself. It's open road here. No place for a speedtrap.

A miles and a half down, the Neptune Fairgrounds spring up to her right.

Set-up is already in progress for this year's Neptunalia - the annual two-day water festival. Crews of workers erect the midway game tents, while a larger crew constructs the main stage.

 

Danny Boyd runs wire to the immense speaker system and thinks about the tight ass on the fifteen year-old blonde he nailed last night. At least he hopes she was fifteen.

 

As the car passes the food midway, the driver's mouth nearly waters in memory: cotton candy, fresh-cut French fries, gyros, corndogs, fresh-squeezed lemonade, deep-fried everything. She might have to put in an appearance. And pray that she doesn't have any awkward run-ins.

The Sebring travels on, into downtown Neptune, making a left turn on Rosecrans Boulevard. Not the classiest side of town. To her left, the garish frontage of the Camelot Motel is unchanged with the passage of time. She smiles wistfully at the memory of too many nights parked out here on stakeouts. Sometimes she had company.

  
Inside room 226 on the second floor, Wesley Quaile, teenage son of a millionaire software developer, embraces Maria Perez, the gardener's daughter. By now, their parents have discovered they never came home last night. He promises her love and devotion and forever. They'll run away if that's the only way they can be together. He means every word. Maria smiles lovingly, and thinks about Juan, the boy she thought she'd marry someday. Before the PCHers got him killed. Wesley's a nice boy though. She could do worse.

 

Down the road, on the right, past sex toy shops and adult bookstores, is the Seventh Veil strip club. It's closed-up tightly this time of the morning, as is its neighbor, Body Shop.

  
In the back room, on a cheap cot, Loretta Cancun sleeps off last night's bender, knuckles bruised from her latest brouhaha.

 

At the next intersection, the convertible makes a right on Adams Avenue, as The Black Keys' ' _Tighten Up_ ' start whistling on the stereo.

One block up and to the left, it passes the Sac N' Pac.

 

The cashier, Kevin Smith, suppresses a laugh as he rings up a box of condoms for a pimply thirteen year old. He's all for safe sex and everything, but there's no way this kid is getting any.

Matt West knows what exactly what the cashier is thinking, but after last month's pregnancy scare, he's past worrying about what other people think.

 

On the opposite side of the street, gold leaf lettering announces the offices of Cliff McCormick, Attorney at Law.

 

Cliff won't be in for several hours. He's currently a little...tied up.

 

The Sebring passes Kensington video, where John/Julia Smith used to drive ninety miles every week just to catch a glimpse of her son Justin.

Three more blocks up, the driver pulls to a stop in front of a pawnshop, glances up, and for the first time, feels the old tug on the heartstrings.

Mars Investigations.

She's home.

She'll be back later.

Pulling back out onto Adams, the car passes the car wash where its driver last saw Lilly Kane alive, and makes a right two intersections later onto Alberta Drive.

The vehicle slows to 20 mph for the Neptune High schoolzone, and it's a good thing it does, as Deputy Norris Clayton is parked behind the hedges with a radar gun. But eh...he'd probably let her go with a warning anyway.

  
Inside the school, Principal Van Clemmons comforts a tearful strawberry blonde office aide, as she relates her story of verbal abuse from two 09er boys. Some things never change.

 

The vehicle continues down Alberta, passing the new City Hall. One of Woody Goodman's victims burned down the old one after the truth of his sexual proclivities was publicly revealed. He was never caught.

The new structure fits better with the neighborhood anyway.

 

The County Supervisor - known to most as the Mayor of Neptune - is not yet in. He's not much of an early riser, but his assistant is already babbling on the phone to a girlfriend in a long-winded monologue.

 

Next door, at the Sheriff's Department, Sheriff Van Lowe stands outside of one of the cells making a mutually beneficial deal with a prisoner. All charges will be dropped, but he wants a cut of the action.

 

The Sebring makes a right at Sandpiper Drive, leading into the residential area for the lower income brackets. It passes North Oak Drive on the right, where Mac used to live with her parents. Armsby Park, where the Fennells live, is two more streets up on the left. Finally, five blocks later, the driver makes a right onto Atherton Street.

Six houses up and to the left, she pulls into the driveway of the small brick ranch home her father purchased several years ago with the proceeds from his book on the murder of Dean O'Dell. She shuts off the car.

* * *

**Mars Residence**

Veronica Mars composes her face into something resembling normalcy before lifting her fist to knock. Taking a deep breath, and adding a smile to her façade, she raps on the wooden door. Having never lived in this house, she's not comfortable just walking in.

"Be right there," Keith calls out, opening the door moments later.

"Veronica?" Worry and delight battle for possession of his face. "What are you doing here? I wasn't expecting you."

"Hi dad!" She opens with a cheerful little finger wave. "I'm home."

"Well come here and give your old man a hug," he commands with a booming voice, opening his arms wide.

Veronica steps into his embrace, squeezing him back. She considers breaking down - no place is safer than her father's arms - but dismisses the idea. She's spent too many years suppressing her vulnerability. The mere thought of crying is exhausting.

Keith takes a step back. "Let me look at you," he says, bracing her face between his hands.

"You act like you weren't over for dinner only two weeks ago." Veronica pulls away with a sigh. She can't allow him to examine her too closely. He'll see right through her.

"You're my little girl. I don't get to see you enough. Come on, I'll make you a some coffee,"

She follows him to the kitchen, taking a seat at the small oak table, as he inserts a coffee pod into the machine she bought him for Christmas. The motor hums as it brews, releasing a strong aroma of hazelnut. Veronica inhales deeply. Instant mood lifter. She recognizes a set of blue decorative bowls from the old apartment. And the golden scrollwork circle up on the wall.

Keith places creamer and sugar on the table before retrieving Veronica's mug from the brewer. He fixes a cup for himself and sits opposite his daughter.

"So tell me what's wrong."

"Wrong? What makes you think something's wrong? Everything's fine."

"Veronica…" He levels his knowing gaze upon her. "Your dark circles say otherwise."

"Fine." She exhales a bit petulantly. "I was wondering if you'd let me stay here with you for a while?"

"Stay here? What about your job? Are you taking a leave of absence?"

"No, not a leave of absence." She laughs bitterly. "I quit my job."

"You quit your job?"

_And there's the worry I was hoping to avoid._

"Yeah…" She flashes her  _brave-little-trooper_  smile. The one that buys her time when she really doesn't want to talk about something.

"Are you sure that was a good idea?"

"I've just...kind of had it. All of the death, day in and day out. Why did I ever think I could work homicide?"

"You caught a rough case?" Keith asks, and if anybody should know how a case could get under your skin, it's him. She'll spill all the gory details soon, but she's not ready yet.

"Something like that."

"You could always ask for a transfer to a different department," he suggests gently.

"Um...there might have been some bad blood there at the end." Veronica stares at her hands.

_And a broken nose._

Keith nods in understanding. "Well, you're welcome to stay here indefinitely. Is there anything else I can do to help?" he asks.

"I don't suppose you're hiring?" she asks with a hopeful expression. "I could use a job."

"There will always be a job for my beautiful and brilliant daughter. You're planning to stick around in Neptune?"

"Can't say for sure." She takes a sip from her coffee. "If it feels right. If I'm going to start-over, might as well do it where I have a built-in support system."

"That you do."

They talk for a while about inconsequential things. Thanks to Keith's proven track record on high-profile cases, business is booming. He's had to turn potential clients away recently, so Veronica's arrival could not be more fortuitous.

When she yawns, he gets up from the table. "Come on, let's get your room ready."

Veronica follows her father to the hallway where, after grabbing a clean set of sheets from the linen closet, he opens the door to the guest room.

The room contains a twin bed, two nightstands and a dresser. Nothing else. The lack of any decoration has never bothered her before, but she'll have to do something about it now that she'll be staying on a more long-term basis.

"The movers should be bringing my stuff tomorrow," she says, as they work together to strip the bed and put on clean sheets. "I'll have to rent a storage locker for my furniture."

"There's a place not far from the office. We can check it out later if you'd like, but you go ahead and take a nap now. You must have headed out at the crack of dawn."

* * *

Veronica wakes refreshed, an hour or so later, and brews herself another cup of coffee. Canned laughter from the TV, tells her that her father is still home. She'll join him in a moment, but first she needs to check in with Wallace; see if he wants to get something to eat later.

Retrieving her cell from her purse, she finds the battery drained. Damn. She'd had it on the car charger the entire ride here, but lately, the cord has been acting up.

She reaches for the landline, but doesn't get a dial tone.

"Dad, what's wrong with your phone?" she asks, wandering into the living room.

"The landline?" He glances up from the television. "We had that storm two days ago, knocked out the phone service. Somebody's coming to fix it tomorrow."

"Oh…" Veronica says, reaching for his cell on the coffee table. "Well my battery is dead, so I need to use-"

"Wait!" Keith protests in obvious alarm, but it's too late.

Veronica presses the power button. The screen lights up displaying a photo wallpaper of a happy looking couple mugging for the camera. Her jaw drops.

"What the hell is this?" Her eyes narrow and she enunciates every word separately.

Keith sighs. "I've been meaning to tell you for a while."

"How long?" Her voice drips with ice. "How long has this been going on?"

He looks at the floor. "About a year."

"A year?" Veronica nearly shrieks. "You've been hiding this from me for a year?"

"I wanted to tell you, but I knew you'd react this way."

"I just...I can't deal with this. This is not going to work."

Keith stands now, looks her in the eyes, and speaks firmly. "This is not up for discussion. We are two single adults in a loving, committed relationship. You do not get a say in this."

"Loving? After everything-"

"People change." He reaches for her hand. "Veronica, I love you, and I know I gave you too much leeway to dictate my love life when you were a teenager. You do not have that right anymore."

"But dad-"

"Don't you want me to be happy?"

"Not with her."

"Veronica…"

"Just keep her away from me."

"I will. For now. Eventually though, we're going to have to deal with this. You're both very important people in my life."

"I always thought you'd end up with Alicia," Veronica says with a pout.

"I don't think her new husband would appreciate that very much," Keith answers. "They're very happy. As am I."

Veronica swallows her nausea and turns away to dial the phone. Wallace answers on the second ring.

"Mr. Mars?"

"That'll be  _Ms._  Mars to you," she answers, already feeling her tension loosen at the sound of her BFF's voice. "So guess what?"

"What?" He asks, in an exaggeratedly excited voice.

"I'm home. You want to get something to eat later?"

Wallace suggests a steakhouse recently opened in the shopping district, and offers to pass the word along to Mac and Weevil, since she's never memorized their numbers. After finalizing their plans, she hangs up and tosses the phone back to her father.

"Veronica…"

"No." She holds up a hand. "Let's not discuss this anymore. I have a few hours to kill before dinner. Want to go to the office?"

* * *

**Mars Investigations**

Mar's Investigations is exactly as Veronica remembers. She lingers for a moment in the puddles of colored light streaming through the stained glass windows. She's always loved those windows.

"So…" she begins. "What am I supposed to do for a desk?"

"Let's see how things go." Keith answers, leaning on the arm of the couch. "The place next store is vacant. If you decide you're going to stick around, maybe we can knock down a wall and expand."

She contemplates this. Doesn't seem like an altogether bad idea.

"For now?" Keith shrugs, leaves the room, and returns a moment later with a box. "Let's clear off Terry's desk for you."

He begins clearing items from the top of the receptionist's desk, and Veronica jumps in to help.  
"How about you finish this up, and I'll go buy a smaller desk for Terry?" He looks around. "We can put it over there." He points to an area between the door and the small kitchen.

Keith leaves, and Veronica continues to clear off the desk, already lost in thought. How had she lived without this all of these years? Why had she ever thought a regimented environment would be a good fit for her? This is where she belongs. This is her calling.

The desktop emptied, she cleans off the top with a Clorox wipe, before retrieving her laptop from her bag, and plugging it in.

She loses track of time, reviewing case files she'd swiped before quitting her job. When she hears the door open, she glances up, expecting her father. Instead, a stunning black woman enters with a cute little boy of around eight years old. Her long hair is pulled back on the sides, and she wears a classic wrap-dress in a shade of emerald.

"Jackie Cook!" Veronica says, walking around the desk to greet her. "Fresh from the Sorbonne?"

Jackie flashes an embarrassed smile. "Good to see you, Veronica."

"Hate to break it to you, but we're supposed to be aging. You don't look a day older than you used to."

"Like you're one to talk." Jackie grins and pulls Veronica in for a hug, and then gestures to the boy. "My son, Michael."

"Pleased to meet you, Michael," Veronica says, and is surprised by his firm handshake.

"How can I help you, Jackie?"

"I'm here to hire you."

"Were you staking out the office or something?" Veronica asks wrinkling up her face, "Because I just got back into town today."

"No, just a coincidence. I only got back today as well."

Veronica offers Michael a seat on the couch and brings him some printer paper and a pencil to keep him occupied.

"So what's going on?" Veronica asks, sitting across the desk from Jackie.

"It's my father. He's being framed."

"Shocker. What for this time?"

"Game fixing."

"Um...didn't he come right out and admit to the game fixing?"

"In the past, yes. He's completely innocent this time."

"What happened?"

"He's been coaching baseball over at Hearst for the past few years. It's not glamorous, but it at least allows him to work with his passion again."

"Okay?"

"So they played their annual rivalry game a few weeks back against Balboa U. Hearst was the clear favorite to win. They were undefeated for the season, and Balboa has an abysmal record."

"Go on."

"Well, Hearst not only lost, but lost badly. Bad pitches. Nobody could catch a ball."

"And based on your father's history, they assumed he bet money against the team and fixed the game."

"Exactly. He's been fired, and might be facing criminal charges."

"You're positive he didn't rig the game?"

"Absolutely."

"I'll see what I can do." Veronica rises to retrieve a contract from Keith's desk.

"So how've you been these days?" she asks, as she fills out the form. "Married?"

"No, never married. You?"

"Only to my job." Veronica answers. "But we're in the middle of an ugly divorce right now."

Jackie winces in sympathy.

"So…" she starts.

"Wallace?" Veronica guesses.

"I'm that transparent?"

"It's only natural you'd ask. He's still in town. Divorced. He was married to Jane Kuhne for a while, but she went a little batty. Became scarily possessive towards the end."

Jackie has the good judgment not to comment. She's experienced Jane's jealousy.

"Hey, I'm having dinner with Wallace this evening. You should come along."

Momentarily, Jackie's eyes light up, but she stuffs it down. "Wallace never wants to see me again."

"He said that?"

"That's the last thing he ever said to me. Do me a favor. Don't mention to him that you've seen me."

"But he's-"

"I know he's your best friend, but why hurt him unnecessarily?"

"I'll keep quiet on one condition."

"I'm afraid to ask."

"You contact him yourself."

Jackie sighs. "Give me tonight to think about it, okay? I'll let you know tomorrow."

"I can give you tonight," Veronica agrees.

They conclude their business, and Veronica promises to stay in contact.

Keith returns minutes later dragging a small pressboard desk behind him. "Found it at a garage sale," he says excitedly, "Ten bucks!"

Veronica groans and shakes her head. "Well, at least it's not a water bed."

 


	3. Episode One/Part Two: Neptune Wasn't Waiting

**Neptune**

* * *

**Episode One/Part Two: Neptune Wasn't Waiting**

* * *

**Razia's Steakhouse - Neptune**

The interior of Razia's Steakhouse has an industrial vibe, with brick walls, an exposed ceiling, and gleaming stainless steel fixtures everywhere. The air is thick with the tantalizing aromas of grilling beef and freshly baked dinner rolls.

Wallace and Weevil are seated at a corner table, but both stand as Veronica approaches. She takes a second to examine their faces, and it's as if they've traded places. Weevil seems…easier. Relaxed. He no longer emits that vibe like he's expecting a knife between his shoulder blades at any moment. Wallace, on the other hand, has misplaced his natural…floppsiness. A huge smile spreads across his face, but a lingering sadness lives in his eyes now. He's never quite recovered from his divorce, although it's been nearly a year. He pulls her into a tight hug, adding an extra squeeze. "Been too long, girl," he says.

"It hasn't even been a month since you were in San Diego, dork."

"Like I said," He says with a laugh. "Too long."

Weevil flashes her a slow lopsided grin, gives her his patented once-over, and then holds out one arm. "Get over here, girl." He pulls her in for a loose hug, giving her a few gentle pats on the back. He smells good. Expensive.

_Keep any suspicions about criminal activities to yourself, Veronica._

Veronica slides into her chair, and reaches for the burgundy leather-bound menu. It opens to a list of appetizers.

_Proceed with small talk in 3…2…1…_ "Nice place. When did it open?"

"Ehh...month or two ago?" Weevil answers, distractedly rubbing the top of his head. "Supposedly the chef is some big deal, but who keeps up with that stuff? "

Wallace touches her forearm. "Don't even bother with the menu. They serve this Asiago covered steak you have to taste to believe."

"Say no more." Veronica closes her menu with a flourish. "That was easy."

"So, how long has it been, V?" Weevil saves his place in the menu with his finger, and glances up at her. "Couple years?" He's back to wearing the small gold hoop earrings.

"Um...I've been gone for six. But I know I saw you at least once..." She trails off trying to remember when she ran into him last. "Three...No, four years ago. At Neptune General Hospital after my dad had that car accident. You were in the lobby, but you didn't have time to chat. Said you had somewhere important to be."

She pauses for a beat, giving Weevil a chance to explain himself, but he waits her out.

"You kind of ran off without an explanation."

"Had somewhere important to be." He shrugs, and she knows it's the most she's going to get out of him. At least through direct channels.

She turns to Wallace. "Where's Mac?"

"Couldn't make it. Had to work late tonight, but she said to give her a call tomorrow."

"She skipped dinner with her oldest girlfriend to work late?"

"Don't be too hard on her," Wallace says. "You know she's pretty much doing two jobs over at Casablancas."

"Two jobs?"

"Dick is more of a… _figurehead_  than an actual CEO."

Veronica shakes her head. "I still don't quite understand how she ended up working for  _him_."

"She's paid very very well. Big Dick…" Wallace stops and makes a face at his choice of words. "…Dick Sr. found himself another trophy wife and wanted to retire to the Caymans, so he gave Little Dick six months to prove he could keep the company afloat."

"Which of course he couldn't," Veronica supplies.

"Well, he's smart enough to know when he needs help. He'd seen what Mac and Lo—" His eyes flick away uncomfortably. "…um…her…other business partner…were able to pull off, so he begged her to come work for him."

Their waitress, a petite brunette wearing a white button-up and black pants arrives to take their drink orders. Since all three already know what they want, they submit their meal orders as well. Wallace and Veronica order the Asiago Steak with salads and baked potatoes. Weevil goes with a T-Bone and French Fries."

Her phone buzzes, displaying a text message from her partner - former partner now - Joe Lopez.

**Why is your apartment empty? Not even a goodbye?**

_I suppose I should have said goodbye. But it's not like we were serious. It was a casual fling. Good sex. Mutual respect. Not much in the way of romantic feelings._

She expects he'll text again, or even worse, call, so she turns off the phone and stuffs it in her bag. _  
_

_I'll deal with you later. I suppose._ _Wish you would have had my back at the end._

Veronica feels Wallace's eyes on her and glances over at him.

"You look beat to hell," he says. "Have you been sleeping?"

She smiles weakly. "Exhaustion."  _Of the soul._ "And a bad case of insomnia."

Aware the conversation will soon turn to her presence in Neptune, Veronica buys herself some time, turning to Wallace.

"So...Mr. Basketball coach. School's starting back up soon. You excited to go back to work or dreading it."

Wallace grins. "I'm actually stoked. I'll be coaching the JV team this year."

"That's a step up?"

"From the freshman team? You bet." Wallace says. "You know, I've been coaching basketball camp all summer, so it's not like I haven't been working"

"How about you, Weevil? Still doing rim jobs?" she asks with a smirk and an arched brow.

Weevil grins and shakes his head. "In a manner of speaking. You're looking at the Director of Fleet Services."

"What is Fleet Services?"

"Um...the city owns well over 300 vehicles and pieces of equipment. Fleet buys them, and keeps them garaged, fueled, and maintained."

"Weevil…" Veronica lowers her voice and shields her mouth with her hand as if telling a secret. "You're a felon. You can't work a government job."

Weevil shrugs and flashes a secretive smile. "I know people, V."

Veronica is about to interrogate him further, when their food arrives. She holds up a finger to remind him she's not done with that line of questioning, but once she takes a bite of her Asiago Steak, she can't even remember what day it is. The steak is to die for.

They talk for a while about current events. More than once, the boys exchange side-eyed glances, as if to stop each other from mentioning something – or someone – off-limits. Of course, she wants to know, but she's torn between unbearable curiosity and self-preservation.

"So, I hear you're a hotshot homicide detective these days," Weevil says between bites. "How's that going?"

"Actually..." Veronica stares at her plate. "I'm a private investigator these days."

"Wait…" Wallace puts down his fork. "What're you saying?"

She sighs. She'll have to get used to explaining herself. At least a watered-down version of the truth. "My dad hired me back."

Nobody says anything.

"I'm home! Tada! Let the celebrations commence."

Wallace looks confused, and Weevil looks… _worried?_

"Balloons? Confetti? Skywriting?"

Silence.

"Nothing?"

"So what happened to your day job?" Wallace finally asks.

"Too much death. I burned out." She shoves a bite of steak in her mouth, chewing slowly to avoid any more questions.

It's one of the hardest things she's ever had to say. Invincible Veronica Mars does not burn out. It is, however, an easier explanation than ' _I'm hiding out from a serial killer with an unhealthy interest in me. A serial killer nobody else believes exists.'_

She swallows and changes the subject. "So Wallace, how's the love life? Dating anybody new?"

Her curiosity is twofold - he's had a rough year since his divorce. He hadn't wanted to leave, but he could no longer live with Jane's constant suspicion - especially once she'd started accusing him of affairs with his married coworkers. Secondly, if he's dating someone, Jackie's reappearance might not be so catastrophic.

"Nope, not dating anybody yet, but hopefully my luck will change Saturday night,"

"What's Saturday night?"

"The Neptunalia, girl." He grins widely, and this time the smile reaches his eyes. "Where some lucky lady will have the opportunity to bid on yours truly in the Bachelor Auction."

Veronica almost spits out her drink. "Bachelor's Auction? As in, you get auctioned off like livestock?"

Wallace shakes his head, holds up a hand in protest. "As in... It's one date, and it's for charity. Half of the proceeds go to the Neptune Food Bank, and the other half goes to a charity of my choice, which - if you're interested - is the basketball camp for underprivileged kids where I've been volunteering."

"Well, I'm sure those children will appreciate your sacrifice when you go out on a date with a psycho and never come back."

"Veronica, don't be like that."

"When will the date be?"

"You don't want to answer that," Weevil says.

"Well...the auction is Friday night, so the dates will be on Saturday."

"I can work with that," Veronica says.

Weevil shakes his head in amusement. "I warned you."

"Girl, what are you thinking?" Wallace asks.

"I'm thinking background check."

Wallace covers his eyes with his hands for a moment and then removes them with an exhale.

"When and where is this auction?" Veronica asks.

"Friday, 8:00 PM, main stage at the fairgrounds."

"I'll be there."

"This is a bad idea," Weevil says.

"Why?"

"Don't you even  _think_  about bidding on me," Wallace warns, waggling a finger at her. "I'm kinda excited to be dipping my toe back into the dating pool."

"Just skip the auction, V," Weevil says.

"You seem more personally invested in keeping me away than he is. Why? Will you be one of the shiny bachelors being auctioned off?"

Weevil gives her that  _'are-you-sniffing-glue?'_  look he's so good at. "No, but I'm working the lights. I'm just sayin' you're gonna cramp his style and embarrass him."

"Would I do that?" Veronica tries to look putout.

They both level a stare at her.

"Fine…" Veronica sighs in capitulation. "I promise I won't bid on you. Unless, it looks like some whack-a-doo is going to buy you."

"Will you be tailing him on his date as well?" Weevil asks. "Three cars back with night vision goggles?"

"Depends on the results of the background check," Veronica fires back.

Weevil's phone rings. The corners of his lips turn up almost imperceptibly until he notices Veronica watching. "Excuse me for a minute," he says, standing and leaving the table.

_What's that all about, and when did he get all sneaky?_

"I'll be right back," Veronica says. "Need to use the restroom."

Wallace shakes his head. "Just can't resist, can you?"

On her way to the bathroom, Veronica finds Weevil in the bar, leaning against the wall and holding his phone to his ear. He looks relaxed and amused, so maybe the phone call is nothing to worry about. She continues on to the bathroom.

When she returns to the table, Weevil still hasn't returned.

"Where's my food?"

"What food? Your plate was empty."

"Hey, I still had two bites of baked potato left," Veronica complained.

Wallace shakes his head. "Eat your salad. It's good for you, and you've barely touched it."

"I would." Veronica says with a pout, "But they took my silverware too."

She flags down their server and asks for another set of silverware as Weevil returns to the table.

"What was all of that about?" Veronica asks.

Weevil shakes his head. "Still nosy as ever, I see. It was a friend."

"Of the female persuasion?"

"No. Moving on. So you're going back into the P.I. biz?"

"Moving on, for now. I'll circle back around later." Veronica warns. "And yes. I already have a case."

"Oh yeah? Anything interesting?"

"Can't really talk about the details," she says, avoiding Wallace's eyes, "but it has to do with Hearst, so I guess I'll be spending some time at my old stomping grounds."

"Good luck with that," Weevil chuckles.

"What's that supposed to mean."

"I was still working there up until the end of last year. They really cranked up security."

"How so?"

"You'll need a Hearst ID to get past the guard house. Otherwise, you'll have to go through the Visitor's Center."

"So? I'll go to the Visitor's Center."

"They'll only give you a visitor's pass if you're accompanied by a student or a faculty member."

"Damn. Now what?"

Weevil thinks for a minute. "I'll tell you what. I still have my old Hearst ID card. I can drop it off at your dad's place in the morning, but you'll have to switch out the photo and re-laminate it."

"Well aren't you Mr. Helpful."

"Feels just like old times," Weevil deadpans.

* * *

**Mars Residence:**

Veronica feels weary to the bone when she arrives back at her dad's house. She's been dragging for months now, but had hoped that returning home cure her of the ' _blahs_ '.

_Home. This is home now._

"Veronica, is that you?" Keith calls out from the kitchen.

"Who else would be here?" Veronica asks and then groans. "No. Don't answer that." She plops down onto the couch next to Backup, and scratches him in his favorite spot behind his ear.

"You need anything? Water? Tea?" Keith steps into the living room wearing a nice vertically striped button-down and a pair of jeans.

_Is he going out? It's almost 11:00 PM. If he goes out now, it's a...Oh…I'm think I'm going to be sick._

She holds up a palm. "No thanks. I'm good."

Keith sits at Veronica's other side and puts an arm around her. "So how was dinner?"

_Is that cologne?_

"The food was delicious."

Backup wiggles forward to put his head on her lap.

_God, I've missed this dog._

"And the company?"

She hesitates. "It was great to see Wallace and Weevil."

"I sense a ' _but_ '. Want to tell me about it?"

Veronica flashes him a self-deprecating smile. "Just having a little pity party for one."

"Well that's your problem. You should never party alone. Talk to me."

"Aren't you worried about being late to your booty call?" She asks with barely hidden hostility.

"She can wait."

"The correct response would have been:  _'what is a booty call? I'm on my way out to meet a client, who just happens to be nocturnal'_."

Keith shoots her a  _quit-deluding-yourself_  look. "What's really bugging you, Veronica?"

"Besides this?" she waves her hand at Keith's attire.

"Yes, besides that."

"No matter how I say it, it's going to sound selfish."

"Hey. I'm your father. If you can't sound selfish to me, you can't to anybody."

"Okay…" Veronica lets out a sigh, and glances over at her dad. "You know, I was never really happy in homicide."

Keith nods in understanding. He'd warned her years ago that it might not be the right fit for her.

"I was proud of myself for getting there at such a young age. I was good at it. I was intellectually challenged. But it was ugly work, and it started to eat away at my soul"

Keith's arm tightens around her shoulder.

"I think subconsciously I always felt like I'd only  _'pressed pause'_  on Neptune. Like I could slip right back into my old life at a moment's notice, hit play, and pick up right where I left off."

"Okay?" Keith prods her to continue.

Veronica closes her eyes and exhales. "Neptune wasn't waiting for me."

Keith hugs her tightly. "You're finding that your friends went on with their lives while you were gone?"

"They're all so changed," she answers in frustration. "There used to be a certain order to things."

"Everybody had their purpose. Compartments"

"Well when you put it that way, it sounds mercenary. But yeah, in a way."

She holds up a finger. "Wallace. My sidekick. The optimist. Pulled me back from going to the dark side more times than I can count." She counts out a second finger. "Weevil. co-conspirator. Doer of favors. Connections to the criminal element." She counts out a third finger. "Mac. Q to my Bond. Research. Tech support."

"You forgot someone." Keith says gently.

She opens her mouth to speak, but doesn't know what to say, so she shakes her head and pretends he hasn't spoken.

"It's not like I didn't give anything back. I tempered Wallace's optimism with my realism and kept him anchored. I cleared Weevil's name more than once and helped him find a job and get his act together. I helped Mac out of some jams."

Keith's knowing gaze makes her squirm. "So how has everyone changed?"

"Wallace is divorced and jaded. Weevil's gone legit - he's working a city job, for God's sake. Mac didn't even show up."

"So, it sounds like you used to fill certain niches for your friends, but once you were gone, they found other ways to fill them."

Veronica considers her father's statement. "That sounds right."

"You don't think they need you anymore."

"They don't."

"They do, Veronica. Just not in ways that you're comfortable with."

"What's that supposed to mean."

Keith shifts to be able to look Veronica in the eyes, resting his elbow on the back of the couch. "You thrive on solving problems and have people come to you for help."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"You want your friends to need you, but not if it means giving something of yourself away."

"But..." She trails off. She has no idea how to respond to that.

"Veronica, relationships aren't built on favor-trading. How are they supposed to feel your absence if you never let them in?"

Veronica sighs. "In my head, I know you're right. I guess it's something I need to work on."

"You're all functioning adults now. Wallace has had a rough year. He doesn't need a fixer. He needs emotional support. The same will be true for the rest of your friends."

"Well then thank God they have each other," she says, aware that she sounds bitter. "They're great friends now."

"You were used to being the sun they all orbited around."

She glances up at her father, both impressed by his perception and embarrassed by the truth of it.

"That might have been the case once upon a time."

"And you're feeling left out."

"I guess. You know, they have all these new shared experiences that I wasn't a part of. They communicate nonverbally. They cut each other off with glances."

Keith smiles slightly and nods as if unsurprised. "In their defense, you've trained us on what subjects are off-limits. You only have to ask, Veronica."

"I know." She sighs. "Not yet. I'm not ready."

"I know you don't want to admit you care, but maybe part of this alienation you're feeling is self-imposed. Expecting the worst will only eat you up inside."

Keith rises from the couch. "When you're ready to talk - whether about that, or about the reason you're back home - I'll be here, and I'll back you up no matter what."

She smiles sadly. "I know. You always do."

"I have to head out."

"Dad, aren't you a little old for this?"

"Veronica. I agreed to keep her out of your face. I never agreed to stop seeing her."

He kisses Veronica on the temple, and grabs his keys from the hook by the door. "I'll see you in the morning," he says before heading out.

Veronica answers to the closed door. "How can I expect the worst, when I still haven't decided which possibility is the most awful?"

 


	4. Episode One/Part Three – The Wizard of Neptune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ShanghaiLily for everything! From beta-ing to talking me through my blocks. You freaking rock!
> 
> Blame it on Plan B for forever shaping my head canon. It's not the most influential episode of the series, but it's the one that pops into my head first when people mention favorite episodes.

**Neptune**

* * *

**Episode 1/Part 3 – Go See The Wizard**

* * *

Veronica wakes to the sounds of Motown - The Temptations, she thinks - and the mouth-watering aroma of frying bacon. Disoriented at first - she can't remember the last time she woke up to anything other than a silent, empty apartment - she eventually remembers coming home to Neptune.

_Home._

She spends several seconds indulging in the images of old cartoons where scents waft through the air in currents of white curly smoke with beckoning fingers at the end. Were she a character in one of those cartoons, she would rise from bed now, eyes still closed, arms extended zombie-style to follow the scent, narrowly escaping disasters such as open manhole covers, swinging I-beams, and falling pianos, perhaps with the help of Backup to nudge her out of the way.

She opens her eyes.  _Nope still in bed._

She briefly debates the merits of remaining in a warm comfy bed vs. bacon. Of course, the bacon wins out.

Padding down the hall in pajamas and footie socks, she lingers in the doorway to watch her father kitchen-dance to ' _Papa Was a Rolling Stone_ '.

_You still have the moves old man, but if catch you doing James Brown jump splits, I'm intervening._

Two crossover steps and a spin takes him to the stainless steel stove, where he pokes at the sizzling bacon with a pair of orange silicon-coated tongs.

He turns around, noticing Veronica. "Good morning, o' fruit of my loins," he says, lowering the volume on the under-cabinet CD player.

"Don't," Veronica shudders exaggeratedly and holds up a hand in protest. "There's a reason that term is antiquated."

"How was your sleep?" Keith approaches, examining her face with concerned eyes.

_Not good, but nowhere near as rocky as usual._

"I slept fine." She eyes the pan with interest. "I don't suppose some of that bacon just might be for me?"

"Help yourself." Keith gives her a quick tour of the small kitchen opening honey-toned cabinets and drawers to show her where to find silverware, dishes, and most importantly, coffee pods.

Minutes later, she's seated at the table across from her father with a plate of bacon and a fresh cup of hazelnut coffee. She pointedly avoids his eyes while considering potential conversation starters.

' _How was the booty call_?'

' _Are you two crazy kids using protection?_ '

' _I guess it's a little late for that birds and bees talk?'_

Keith breaks the ice. "So, should we do the whole carpool to the office thing?"

"Can't. Weevil's dropping off his old Hearst ID badge for me this morning. I'll have to meet you there later."

"Okay." Keith nods. "Well, since you'll be here anyway, the phone company is sending somebody to fix the landline. Can you let him in?"

"Or her," Veronica answers, sipping from her coffee.

"Or her," Keith corrects.

"Not a problem. I'll humor your over-reliance upon old-fashioned communication devices."

"Says the girl whose cell phone battery died yesterday."

She points at him. "Touché"

Keith leaves for the office, and after spending a few minutes cleaning up, Veronica showers and gets ready for the day.

* * *

The Keurig machine whirs and gurgles as Veronica brews another cup of coffee and checks her cell.

She'd forgotten to power the phone back on after dinner last night, and now finds three more texts and a voicemail from her partner-slash-sometimes lover, Joe.

Conflicted between guilt and annoyance, her lips press together in a thin slash. After two years of being partners, she owes him an explanation, but she's still angry with him for letting her down when she needed him to have her back.

She makes the decision to get this over with, sighing and dropping down into a chair.

He answers on the first ring. "Veronica? Where are you?"

"Neptune. At my dad's house." She circles the rim of her mug with her index finger.

"Okay. Alright. So you're taking some time? How long do you think you'll be away?"

Silence.

Silence.

Deep breath.

"I'm not coming back." She pulls the napkin from under her coffee spoon, halving it, and running a fingernail against the fold.

"WHAT?" Well acquainted with his legendary temper, she imagines him erupting from his chair to pace.

"I'm. Just. Done." She begins twisting the napkin. "Turned in my resignation. Paid the last month on my lease. Hired the movers and forwarded my mail.

Silence.

He exhales, probably forcing himself to speak calmly. "Why are you doing this, Veronica?"

"You know why."

"The Veronica I know doesn't let herself be chased away by one case."

_And there you go, pissing me off again._

"It's not  _just_  one case! He's a serial. And he's fixated on me." She says, icily.

"We've talked about this." She can literally  _hear_  his eye roll.

"No!" Her voice rises in pitch. "I talked! You ignored me. All you had to do was back me up and convince Burns to call in a profiler. One tiny request."

"It's a series of coincidences. Nothing more." His pained, long-suffering sigh pushes her too far.

"I'm done. I have to go."

"Wait!"

"I'm  _done_  Joe. It's not just about the case. I'm. Burnt. Out. I can't remember the last time I was actually happy." The napkin is now twisted into a tight rope, and she begins coiling it cinnamon bun style.

"What about me?"

_Was that an actual whine?_

"You'll get a new partner. Maybe not as talented as me, but…"

"What about  _us_?"

_Definitely a whine._

" _Us?_  Joe, there is no us."

"What do you call these last months?"

"Unprofessional? A mistake?"

"Don't."

"It was sex, Joe. A releasing of physical tension. Nothing more." She untwists the napkin, and begins ripping it into long, even strips.

He answers quietly. "Not for me."

_Bullshit._

"Don't try to pull that. We weren't dating. We weren't exchanging house keys. We weren't even spending the night. You didn't want anything serious any more than I did." She realizes she's clenching her jaw, and tries to relax.

"No!" He stabs out the word. "That's what I let you think. That was the only way I could have you, and I didn't want to scare you away."

"Joe, don't do this."

"I care about you, Veronica. I need you in my life," he says with a hint of desperation.

Veronica sighs.  _Why are you doing this?_

"Listen. I'm angry with you for refusing to trust my instincts. But I'm not purposely trying to hurt you. I thought we were on the same page. This wasn't some deep emotional love affair. We had good sex, but developing any type of  _feelings_  would have interfered with our ability to catch killers. So I didn't allow it to happen."

"I can't let you go. I won't."

_Won't let me? Do you realize who you're talking to?_

"And now? You're starting to creep me out. Goodbye Joe." She disconnects the call, and drops her face into her hands, allowing herself the luxury of a good wallow for a few minutes before finally rising, and cleaning up the napkin shreds.

_Well that was unpleasant._

She'd never intended to get involved with her partner. Sure, his good looks had been the first thing she'd noticed about him when they'd been assigned, but he'd been dating a model at the time, and she'd been dating Pete, the third in a line of long-term _'nice-guy'_  boyfriends. While she'd respected Joe as a partner, and his ability to get the job done, she hadn't liked him very much as a person. His tendency to shift blame for every problem in his life grated on her. Everything that went wrong was because of his parents, or his first girlfriend, or the kid who stole his lunch money in second grade.

One night, shaken by the case they'd caught earlier - the murder of a seven year old girl - and fresh off her breakup with Pete, they'd found themselves at the bar doing tequila shots. She remembers taking him in - his dark eyes, cocky smile - and thinking  _'Nice Guy hasn't worked out, maybe it's time to try Bad Boy again. For tonight_.' The sex had been a marked improvement over Pete, but even better had been when he'd acted as if nothing had changed when showed up for work the next day.

He was never supposed to develop feelings for her, because he had never been a viable boyfriend option.

* * *

The knock at the front door startles Veronica out of her thoughts, causing her hand to jerk and almost overturn her now lukewarm coffee.

_I'm rattled way too easily these days._

She laughs at her own paranoia and pushes away from the table to let Weevil in. He looks good, but she stares at him for a moment, disconcerted. Like everything else since she's been back, his appearance feels...odd...to her. More proof Neptune has moved on without her.

"What, V?" he asks, amused by her expression. "Didn't think I knew how to iron a shirt?"

"You iron?" She says in the tone of voice usually reserved for something like:  _'you do particle physics?'_

"Nah." He grins. "I've got this steam contraption-thingy. Two minutes flat. Don't even need to take the shirt off the hanger."

"Awesome, remind me to send you home with my laundry." She steps aside to let him in, catching another whiff of his woodsy cologne. "Coffee?"

"I wish I could," he says, handing her a card, still warm from his pocket. "...but I need to be at work in fifteen minutes."

She examines the card. White, with a thick red border, it contains the Hearst logo, a photo, and Weevil's name. Luckily, it's laminated, rather than one of the newer magnetic PVC cards. A spring-loaded clamp looped through a cutout allows it to be attached to clothing. "So this is more of a security badge than an ID card."

"Yeah, red border is for staff, blue would be for students." Weevil reaches out a thick fingertip to touch the badge. "You'll want to work a little Photoshop magic to change out the name and photo, but you'll get past the guardhouse as long as they don't examine it too closely."

"Excellent."

"Wait, let me think…" He pauses. "The guards - you see a short man with blond hair and a huge nose, turn around and leave. Pretend you don't have your card or something. He comes across as a nice guy, but he'll call the cops on you in a heartbeat for having the forgery."

"Sounds like a winner."

"His name's Milo Adderly, and you have no idea what a prick he can be." His face twists in disgust at the mere mention of the name. "I'll find out when my buddy Cody is on duty. That'll be the best time to go. Just smile at him and do that head tilt thing, and he'll barely glance at the card. He's a tall guy. Burly. Reddish hair. One of those stubborn chins that makes him look like an asshole. He's not, though."

"If you have a buddy in the guard house, why are we bothering with this ID badge thing?"

"Uh uh," he said, shaking his head emphatically to make his point. "No. If you get caught, I don't want you taking anybody down with you. They take security very seriously these days."

"I understand," she said. She'd do this his way. For now. She could push later - if necessary.

She stops him on the way out the door. "By the way, what is that cologne you're wearing?"

"Um..." His eyes move up and to the right, in a way she's come to recognize as visualizing something from memory. "Stuff's called Oud Azur." He spells it for her. "By Krigler. Why? Want to buy some for that special man in your life?"

"No, just curious. It's nice. And there's really only one special man in my life - you might know him - short, bald guy?" She laughs at the widening of his eyes. "The  _other_ short, bald guy. And if I were in the market to buy cologne for him, it would smell like skunks and mildew and spoiled milk. The perfect touch for nights with  _his_ special lady friend."

Weevil laughs heartily as he backs down the steps. "Yeah, I figured you'd disapprove of that relationship."

"Disapproval is putting it mildly."

* * *

Weevil drives away in a red classic Mustang, and Veronica goes to work on the ID badge, running a blade carefully along the edge of the laminate, and extracting the cardstock with a pair of tweezers. After connecting to her father's flatbed scanner and importing the image, she spends the next hour meticulously Photoshopping a Hearst badge in the name of  _Dottie Hinson_. Finally, pleased with the results, she prints it out to cardstock.

She dials her dad on her cell while comparing her version of the badge to Weevil's.

_Damn. The font is a little off and I'll have to darken the photo._

"Mars Investigations," her father answers. "Keith Mars speaking."

"Dad, it's me." She enters the kitchen, contemplating whether to brew a third cup of coffee.

"What's up?"

She decides to check the fridge first. "How could I go about getting an ID badge laminated?"

"Just go to Kinkos or Office Max like everybody else."

There, in the back is a lone can of Skist.  _Jackpot!_ "Can't. It's for the Jackie Cook case. I can't walk into a Kinkos and ask them to laminate a card for me to bypass Hearst campus security."

He lets out an amused sigh. "Back one day and already finding ways to break the law."

"I turned in my law-abiding ways along with my badge. Renegade looks better on me."

Keith chuckles. "I seem to remember you having a collection of ID cards. License massage therapist, if I recall?"

"Hey, I happen to give fairly adequate massages, thank you very much, and before you ask, no, I will not rub your feet. Anyway, those all came by mail. I don't have the luxury of waiting for this one."

She brings up the Office Max site on her laptop, clicking the link for laminating machines. Fifteen results display. She clicks the 'Available for Store Pickup' checkbox to narrow the selection down to four.

"Maybe I'll just swing by Office Max later and pick up a laminator. They have four in-store models."

"Wait. Before you do, tell me about the original ID. Can you loosely fold it?" Keith asks.

Veronica thinks about how much force she'd had to apply to the blade in order to slice through the card. "No. It was thick and unbendable - like drivers licenses used to be before they switched to PVC.

"Okay, sounds like 10 mil. You don't have to worry about width, but most laminating machines have a max thickness as well."

She skims the four remaining selections. "Damn. They all say 3 - 5 mil."

"You'll probably need a commercial thermal laminator for this. Bill Schroder used to make these for me, but he picked up shop and moved to Vegas. Tell you what, I'll call around to some of my contacts and see if I can locate one for you."

"Thanks, dad. You're the best!" The soda makes a hissing sound as she pops the top open.

"I do accept foot rubs as payment."

Veronica screws up her face. "That is literally made of eww."

"Speaking of identification…" Keith changes the subject.

She pauses on the verge of taking a sip. "Yes?"

"What's the status of your PI license?"

"I don't know. It has to be expired by now, right?" She retrieves the strongbox where she stores her most important documents from the closet shelf in her room, and brings it back to the kitchen table, flipping on the bright overhead light on the way.

"You'll need to get it reinstated. In order to add you to the agency's insurance policy, you need to be legal."

"Okay, I'll get on that." She flicks the combination lock to 3188, opens the lid, and begins rifling through papers inside.

"Wait…" Keith says. "I'm looking at the FAQs on the website right now…' _How long after the expiration of my license am I able to renew it?'"_

"So what's the answer?" She sets things in a pile as she empties the box. High school diploma...birth certificate...a handful of old love letters - two in a careful blocky script, the rest in a dramatic flowing script...

Keith continues reading. " _If, after three years, you fail to renew a delinquent license, you must submit a new application and begin the application process again."_

"Well, that's encouraging." Her eyes fall upon the document in question. "Oh here it is."

"You found it?"

"Yeah." She examines the document, does the math in her head, and then groans in frustration. "It expired three years and two months ago."

She can hear the wince in Keith's voice. "You missed it by only two months?"

"Looks like it. I can't believe I have to start the entire process all over again. This could take  _months_."

"On the plus side, maybe you'll be able to beat my score this time."

"Not funny, old man. I would have beaten it last time if—" The sound of the doorbell interrupts her. "That's the door. I'll call you back."

* * *

She sets down her cell and uses both hands to hurriedly shove papers back into the strongbox, closing and locking the lid before rushing to answer the door.

The tall man in a service uniform on the front steps offers Veronica a friendly smile as she opens the door. He opens his mouth to introduce himself, and then freezes, eyes widening.

"Veronica Mars?" Apparently, her presence is a surprise for him, and not the balloons and noisemakers type.

"Yes?"

"Wow. I didn't…" He glances down in confusion at the paperwork on his clipboard. "I would have sent another technician, but the service order says Mark Keith." He turns the clipboard to show the form to Veronica.

"That's Mars, Keith," she says, sparing a glance at the form. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

"You don't remember me?" He seems surprised.

_Why? Were you thinking you'd left an indelible mark upon my psyche?_  "You look vaguely familiar."

"Rick Smith." He stares at his feet, as if severely uncomfortable. "Um…we had that…incident…in high school."

"Well now you've narrowed it down to only  _half_ of the student body. Can you be more specific?"

He seems relieved to not be remembered, moving down a step, and poised to leave. "How about I send somebody else to fix your phone line? I can probably get somebody here by tomorrow afternoon."

_What did I do to you to make you so eager to get away from me? "_ Does my breath stink or something?" She cups a hand over her mouth and breathes. "Should I be offended here?"

"No." He shakes his head. "I just figured you wouldn't want me around." He moves down another step to ground level.

"Wait! I do know you!"

He squirms under her intense gaze.

"You're the guy who almost got me charged with a felony, and tried to blame it on a secret society - the Tritons."

"Yeah…" He exhales, and looks up with remorseful eyes. "I'm that guy."

_He still seems just as pathetic._

He moves back up one step with his hands held up in a goodwill gesture. "Listen. I sincerely apologize from the bottom of my heart."

She waits him out.

"I'm not trying to make excuses, but that was one of the worst periods of my life. Everything was falling apart. My dad being fired and arrested. My parents' divorce. I was drinking all the time and acting out."

Veronica narrows her eyes. "I could have been charged with a felony."

"I know, and I am so sorry."

_He does seem sincere._

"What happened after you were busted?"

"They lowered the charges to a misdemeanor and sentenced me to six months community service. I ended up finishing school at Pan High."

"Of course you got a slap on the wrist," she says bitterly. "You were an 09er. Did you even consider that Lamb would have thrown the book at me?"

"No. I swear! Everything just got out of hand. I thought that maybe you'd get detention. A suspension at the most." He nervously wiggles his fingernails between the carbons on the service order form.

_But did I consider the possible consequences when I planted a bong in a certain locker?_

Rick steps backwards again. "I'll just call back to the office and see what I can do about rearranging appointments. Maybe we can get another guy in here this afternoon?"

_I intimidate the hell out of him._

_Good._

"Yeah. You do that." Veronica says dryly.

"Sorry for wasting your time." He gives a small apologetic wave and walks to the pale gray minivan painted with the red and white ' _SoCal Telecom Specialists_ ' logo.

Veronica turns to close the door.

_I remember being less upset by the set-up than by the fact that they were trying to pass off obvious fakes as my work._

The door is halfway closed when it occurs to her. She spins around and jogs down the front steps to the driveway. Rick is still at the end of the driveway waiting for an approaching car to pass. When he sees her waving, he pulls back forward and lowers his window. "Something wrong?"

"The laminating machine. What did you do with it?"

"The one we used for the fake ids?"

"Yes." She motions for him to spit it out.

He looks up, thinking. "I don't know. It's probably up in my mom's dusty attic. She never throws anything away. Why?"

"I need an ID card laminated. Like immediately." At the expression of alarm in his eyes, she holds up her hand in reassurance. "No, not a government-issued ID. A college ID. For a case."

He still seems hesitant.

"I'll pay you well."

"I couldn't accept money from you after what I did."

"But—"

"I'll do it. I mean, I can't promise the machine is still there, or even functional, but I'll go over to mom's after work and at least try."

"Thanks. You're a life saver."

_Ask and you shall receive._ She grins up to the universe at large.  _I'd also like a brand new car if you can arrange that._

"Where's the card you need laminated?" he asks.

She remembers she still needs to correct the font and the lighting. "It needs a tiny bit more work."

Rick puts the van in park. "How long?"

"Not sure. Actually, you can repair my dad's retro communication device while you wait." She smirks.

He gives her a relieved smile, and climbs out of the van with his clipboard. "Thanks. I wasn't looking forward to explaining to my tyrant sister-in-law she'd have to rearrange appointments because I was a moron at sixteen."

"Your sister-in-law?"

"My brother's wife. She liaisons with the phone companies, accepts the contracts, and stuff. It's a family business, and she runs it with an iron fist."

"Come on in," Veronica says. "But I'm warning you now, I have a taser, so don't even look at me funny."

He holds up both hands in innocence. "My face will be a mask of indifference."

Veronica leads him into the house, showing him the locations of the wall jacks.

She grabs her strongbox from the kitchen table. "If you don't need anything else…"

"I'm good, thanks."

It takes her two more tries to get the lighting perfect on the photo and three to get the font spacing perfected. The clock on the stove reads 1:15 PM when she finds Rick in the kitchen watching the readout on an electronic device plugged into the wall jack. Looking up as she enters, he grins and turns the device towards her, allowing her to see flashing digital numbers that mean nothing to her. "Getting a signal now. Few more minutes."

She's showing him the printed cardstock – two copies in case he makes a mistake – and the plastic from Weevil's old ID card pointing out the rounded corners and ¼ inch of overlap, when her cell rings.

"Hello?"

"Veronica. It's me," Keith says. "Good news and bad news."

"What's up?"

"I talked to a contact that used to work at the California Bureau of Security and Investigative services."

"Okay?"

"Turns out there's a  _'special circumstances'_  extension you can get to avoid having to start the PI application process all over again."

"Well that's the good news, what's the bad?"

"The extension can only be signed by the sheriff or the county supervisor."

"Hmmm...Well, we both know Vinnie won't sign it. He can't have me around showing-up his sheriff's department. Looks like I'll be paying a little visit to the Mayor of Neptune."

Rick is standing awkwardly, with his clipboard in his hand as if waiting for her to get off the phone. She holds up one finger to tell him she'll be off in a second.

"Hey, need to go. The phone repair guy needs to talk to me."

"Wait. Veronica. You need—"

"I remember the drill with Mayor Wilson. He does favors for deserts. Specifically Tiramisu from The Hut. Gotta go." She hangs up.

Rick is smiling at her. "So hey, if you ever need any help with any other cases, just let me know. I know I owe you big-time..."

_Uh-oh. I recognize that look. Piz Piznarski, circa 2007. Don't even think about asking me out, buddy. One laminated card does not make us even._

_Although…a few more favors..._

Her phone rings again. "Forget something, dad?"

Joe's voice answers. "Veronica. Can we please just talk?"

_Oh dear God, can't he take a hint?_

"No. I can't talk, Joe. We can discuss our  _relationship_  later." Rick's smile falls.  _Hint taken?_  "I'm in the middle of something. Goodbye."

She disconnects the call, signs-off on the service order form, and finishes up her own business with Rick. He promises to call with an update on the ID card later that evening.

When, three minutes later, Joe's name shows once again on caller id, she ignores the call and powers off her phone for good measure.

_He never could take no for an answer._

* * *

Veronica double-checks her reflection in the glass windows outside of the new City Hall. Her black pencil skirt - worn without the matching jacket - ends inches above her knees. She pairs it with a recently purchased blouse in a rich shade of emerald, short sleeved with feminine detailing, in a fabric that glides across her skin like silk without any of the negative properties. Her hair falls in waves around her shoulders, and her classic black pumps accentuate her calves nicely.

Although the bagged desert in her hand should do the trick, she's known Mayor Jeff Wilson - through her father - since high school, and is aware of his appreciation for a nice set of legs.

_I'll have him eating out of the palm of my hand._

The austere lobby of city hall is deserted. Nobody lingers on the unobtrusive maple benches tucked in between potted trees. Nobody climbs the focal-piece staircase or looks down from the balcony. She shivers from the chill of the air conditioning, and glances left and right to get her bearings. This building was newly built the last time she was here, almost seven years ago.

_Was the mayor's office upstairs or down that hall to the right?_

_Or maybe I should follow that large brass sign with an arrow pointing right?_

Her heel clicks on the mosaic tile floors bounce loudly off the tall, vaulted ceiling as she rounds the corner. She stops in front of the far door - wooden with a frosted glass window, labeled 'County Supervisor's Office' in gold leaf.

Smoothing out her skirt one last time, she turns the knob and steps into the office shutting the door silently behind her. She stands in tastefully furnished reception area. Straight ahead, on the far side of the room, a narrow hallway leads back to the mayor's inner sanctum. Immediately to her left a tall counter divides the waiting area from the receptionist/supermodel perched with her back to Veronica on the edge of a desk, a phone pressed to her ear.

"And then…the fourth time we broke up, he swore he only wanted me, but when I went out for drinks with Amy that same night, there he was with that skanky blonde he used to date."

"No, not her." She listens to the other end of the call and then continues. "Not her either. That was a different time. There have been a few blondes. No, she's just a friend." Pause. "No, it's not his fault. He's damaged or something."

Momentary silence.

"Because his mom was never there for him, and his dad…well…you know."

_How do I know that voice?_

_Gia Goodman?_

"But I know he's the guy for me. We just click on this…you know…cellular level."

_Oh, crap. Maybe I didn't think this through enough._

Veronica can only see two possible outcomes. She announces her presence, and Gia tells her she can't get in to Mayor Wilson without an appointment. Or she gets trapped for the next hour 'catching up' with the details of Gia's dramatic love life.

She eyes the closed door at the end of the hallway longingly.

_Or maybe there's a third option._

She makes a split decision, thankful for the rebuilt City Hall. Back in the days of Woody Goodman, the mayor's office had glass walls, and it would have been impossible to sneak past the receptionist.

Dropping to her knees, she cradles the bakery bag and crawls past the reception area as quickly and silently as possible.

"No, he hasn't actually called yet. But I'll make him wait a few more days before I take him back." Gia never breaks from her conversation. "...because I just know I'm the only one who can help heal his soul."

Veronica rolls her eyes.  _Some girls never learn._

_Maybe I will have to find time to catch up with her. Somebody needs a reality check - Veronica Mars style._

_But not before I get my license extension._

Once safely out of view in the hallway, Veronica stands and smoothes her clothing again. A faint repetitive thumping noise comes from the office at the end of the hallway, and to be safe, Veronica tiptoes the rest of the way to the door.

_Forgive me for my tenacity, Mayor Wilson, but this is kind of time-sensitive._

She opens the door, slipping inside and holding the knob to allow the door to close silently.

The office is larger than most, with a large cherry desk dominating the far side, and a matching round conference table circled by four mauve cushioned chairs to Veronica's left. At first, the room appears empty, but then she registers that the tall burgundy leather chair is facing away from the doorway.

A hand rises up and tosses a small blue ball - the type used by racquetball players - at the round, copper City Seal mounted on the far wall. It strikes the second letter 'E' in  _'Neptune'_ , before bouncing back into the hand. Tossed again, it strikes the letters 'C', 'A', and 'L' in  _'California'_ in a steady thumping rhythm.

_Our tax dollars at work, ladies and gentlemen. Odd, I never took Wilson for the type to slack on the job._

_Well...better announce my presence._

"Mr. Wilson?" she calls out. The hand freezes, missing the ball on its bounce back from the letter 'I'. It hits the desktop and bounces, rolling across the floor to Veronica's feet.

"Hi, I'm sorry for disturbing you and sneaking past your secretary, but I really need to talk to you immediately."

The hand, until now, still frozen in the same position, finally lowers, and the chair slowly turns to face her.

_Well that isn't Jeff Wilson._

_FUCK!_

* * *

Veronica's stomach bottoms-out like an elevator with its cable snipped. She finds herself incapable of looking away, as the County Supervisor rises from his chair _._

_This is wrong. It makes no sense._

_This is_   _'Guess what, Veronica? The sky is chartreuse; the earth is flat, and 2 + 2 = 629' wrong._

From his slack jaw and wide eyes, it's obvious the mayor is as surprised by her presence as she is of his. They remain deadlocked for what feels like several hours. Then he's moving. Crossing the office in long powerful strides.

Her gut clenches and she unconsciously stops breathing as her pulse begins to race. On the scale of ' _fight-or-flight_ ', she's definitely leaning towards flight. But her feet won't cooperate, remaining frozen to the spot. She stares at the offending appendages as if trying to will them into action.

_Flight, I said! Move!_

And then he's in standing front of her, and her heart is racing faster than any rabbit's.

With agonizing slowness, she raises her eyes to his face, and what she sees reflected back at her makes her eyes flood and her chest tighten painfully.

She jerks her gaze away, inspecting her pumps and a pair of expensive black loafers through blurred vision. Tries to swallow, but the lump in her throat gets in the way.

_Tears? What the hell is wrong with you, Veronica? You're not that girl._

_Get the hell out of here!_

_Run!_

She takes a shaky breath and lets it out, reaches deep inside for any small measure of control, and finally raises her eyes, curling her lips into a tiny forced smile.

It slips away unnoticed under the fierce intensity of his gaze.

_Deer, meet headlights._

_Run. Run. Run. Run._

She meets his mouth halfway. A violent collision of lips and teeth and tongue.

A hand lifts as if to push him away, but instead slides up into his hair and roughly drags him closer. Kissing him harder. Fisting the soft material of his suit jacket with her free hand. Breath quickening. Pulse accelerating. Overcome by how nothing has changed - the same intoxicating aquatic scent, the same minty taste on his tongue, the same little  _"Mmm"_  sound he makes as the kiss deepens. His hands are on her back. Around her neck. In her hair. Cupping her face. Alternately tender and rough.

Her back slams against the door, followed by her head, leaving her breathless. A large hand slides in to cradle the back of her head, as his mouth tries to move down to her neck. She laughs, dragging him back to her mouth. She wasn't done.

She's losing her ability to think rationally, and doesn't give a damn. The only thing that matters is that there are spaces between them that need to be eliminated. She's arching her back to crush her breasts against him. She's pulling him closer by the hips, but can't get the damn parts to align correctly. And then, fuck it, she's  _climbing_  him like a tree, wrapping her legs around his waist.  _Aligning._ The forgotten bag, still hanging from her wrist bounces against his back with a soft thump and a crinkle. Hands move to support her weight, sliding up her bare thighs, under her skirt, to her ass.

He pulls back to catch his breath, and pauses to stare at her, eyes wide in disbelief. She bites her lip self-consciously, not yet ready to be under the microscope.  _Please, no talking. Just go with it._ And then he's smiling – the kind of smile that inches slowly across the face – and she can't fucking breathe.

_He's beautiful. How did I forget how damn beautiful he is?_

She could stare at his face for days - even feels an answering smile tugging at her own lips – but she has a much better use for his beautiful mouth. She pulls him in again, kissing him deeply and urgently. Crushed between his body and the door, she rocks her hips against his erection, causing him to moan in her mouth.  _So perfect._ He manages to lock the door with a loud click, and then long fingers slip inside her panties gripping her ass cheek tightly. She answers by grinding against him more aggressively. His sharp inhale sucks air from her lungs and without breaking the kiss, he whirls around.

They're moving, and she's laughing - holding on with one hand and untucking his shirt with the other. He's stumbling - that damn blue rubber ball - and then righting himself. Snickering against her mouth as he kicks it across the room and resumes his track.

They're stopping. One warm hand disappears from her thigh, leaving a cold spot, and then the contents of his desktop are crashing and clattering to the floor _. So we've decided to wake the dead?_ He deposits her on the hard surface, and leans into the kiss while shrugging out of his suit jacket. She doesn't have enough hands for all the places she wants to touch, but settles for locating the knot on his tie, and prying at it until it loosens enough to pull over his head.

He's pressing her backwards, and with her legs wrapped so tightly around his waist, she's pulling him with her. She's stretched out full-length on his massive cherry desk and he's on top of her, kissing her senseless.

She's dizzy. Incapable of thought, as he shifts his attention to her neck, honing in on the junction of neck to shoulder. She gasps for breath, and if her nipples weren't already hard, they would be now. There's a desperation to the way she pushes against his chest to relieve the pressure.

"Boss?" Gia's tinny voice projects from somewhere on the floor.

He groans in annoyance, continuing his assault on Veronica's neck.

"I heard a loud noise. Is everything ok in there?"

He sighs, raising his head enough to get his bearings. Trails kisses along Veronica's jawline while dragging the phone off the floor by its cord. It clatters onto the desktop, and he lifts up on one elbow to press the intercom button.

"Everything's fine!" Presses a kiss to Veronica's mouth. "Cancel all of my appointments and take the rest of the day off." Kisses his way to the other side of Veronica's neck.

Veronica realizes that (1) this is the first time she's heard his voice, and (2) when it's husky like this, it still does funny things to her insides. She fumbles with the top button on his shirt.

"But you have an appointment with Dave Bartlett, and I've had to reschedule it twice already." Gia says.

Two buttons, no three buttons down, as he lifts back up on his elbow, shooting a baleful glare at the intercom. "Make it a third and go," he says, urgently.

With his long, graceful throat right above her, Veronica can't resist running her tongue up its length. He answers with a grinding of his hips.

_He's so damn hard. What was I saying about putty in my hands earlier?_

"I didn't like the sound of that bang." Gia insists.

"Please go." He whimpers, and whether it's due to frustration at Gia, or Veronica's teeth on his throat she can't say.

He releases the intercom button and lifts up on both arms, gazing down at Veronica hungrily, while allowing her to clumsily work at his shirt buttons. Her stomach flip-flops in anticipation.  _He's deciding what he wants to do to me._

His eyes are on her breasts, and she trembles, resisting the mad urge to rip her own shirt open for him. Her nipples are so tight right now, it's actually painful, and are clearly visible through her blouse. If he doesn't do something soon…

He meets her eyes again giving her his trademark bob of the eyebrows. The one he uses for a hundred different meanings. Today, it seems to be a cross between  _'We should do something about that'_  and  _'I'm going in.'_

He ducks his head taking one of her nipples between his teeth and her hips fly up off the desk crashing against his erection. He lets out a sexy laugh, and pinches her other nipple between two fingers. She forgets all about unbuttoning his shirt - forgets all about breathing - as her hand moves to the back of his head. Her legs wrap around his ass, working as leverage to drag his hips down as she presses up into him. She watches his eyes nearly roll back from the sensation, and repeats the motion.

Gia's voice intrudes again. "You know, if there were terrorists in there with you, and they were holding a gun to your head, they could be forcing you tell me to leave."

He pulls up onto his knees, straddling Veronica. His eyes are glazed-over with desire, and he caresses her breast with his thumb as he leans forward to press the button. "Gia, just leave!"

Veronica manages the last two buttons on his shirt, and he shrugs it off his shoulders revealing his bare upper body to her eyes for the first time in years.

_Mine!_

She has to shake away her first thought, it's so off base, it's not even funny. Her second, third and fourth thoughts are more acceptable: _FUUUUCK! Want! Damn, somebody's been hitting the gym_ , respectively.

Gia's still babbling. "If somebody has a gun to your head, just give me some kind of sign. What's the code word?"

"We don't have a fucking code word!" He growls in frustration. Then, in pleasure, as Veronica reaches out and squeezes his erection, perfectly outlined by his dress pants. His head falls backwards and his hips thrust forward against her hand.

"Yes we do, I came up with it that day you worked up the pool proposal. You really need to work on your effective listening skills. I can recommend an online training course for that."

His eyes find Veronica's.  _'Can you fucking believe this?'_  She smirks and shrugs, and he leans over to press the button again.

"Fine. I'll get right on that. Tomorrow, if you'll just go. Now."

He moves to kiss her again, but she puts out a hand to keep him upright. He eyes her with barely restrained eagerness as she pushes herself up into a sitting position. So close, but not yet touching, she can  _feel_  the heat radiating from his bare skin.

Her hands lift to glide over his back and chest.  _Mine._ Along shoulders and abs.  _Mine._ Brushing fingertips over places that make him tremble _._ Smooth places, and places lightly dusted with hair. Caressing and squeezing. Cataloguing differences in shape or contour _. Mine._

Just like it always has, the word repeats like a mantra in her head, no matter how hard she tries to push it away. Then again, this entire situation is crazy. It's best not to overthink it.

His breathing is faster now, and a glance up at his eyes tells her how much he enjoys what she's doing.

_Of course he does. He lives to touch and be touched._

And...the lump in her throat returns. A sharp stab of grief and loss.

_I took this away from him._

Which is ridiculous, of course. He's probably been with dozens of women over the years. Most of them fully equipped with hands.

_But did they give this to him? Did they know how much it means to him? Did they do it right?_

_Get a fucking grip, Veronica. Sex now. Over-analysis later._

_Sex now._

Leaning forward, she licks his nipple with the flat of her tongue, causing his hands to tighten reflexively on her waist. She swirls her tongue around it, while his fingers locate the hidden side zipper on her skirt. She takes his tiny nipple between her teeth. Almost laughs as his breath comes out in a hiss and his hips jerk involuntarily.

_Turnabout is fair play, sweetheart._

She flicks her tongue against his captured nipple, just to make him squirm.

His thumbs are rubbing half circles on the skin right above her skirt, making it difficult to figure out how to work a belt buckle. It sticks, and she has to tug on the end a few times to pull it free. His button and zipper are less problematic. She runs the tip of her fingernail down the exposed crimson silk of his boxers.

He groans, and then turns the tables, crushing his mouth against hers. And again, she's swept up. He's kissing her in that particular way that…

_Leaves me foggy and dazed?_

_Makes my toes curl?_

_Makes every other man I've ever kissed look like an amateur._

He's abandoned her mouth, and is kissing his way down her neck, tracing her clavicle with his tongue, and popping open the buttons on her blouse. More skilled than she is, he manages to slide it off her shoulders in mere seconds.  _Not like he hasn't had plenty of practice._

She almost laughs as he pulls back to stare at her. He forgets how well she knows him.

_Step one. Show appropriate awe and appreciation for the beauty of the blonde wearing black lace bra._

_Step two. Surreptitiously scope out the hardware._

His eyes zero in the front-hook between her breasts.

_Ding ding. Target acquired._

_God, you're such a guy, but it's my turn._

She pushes roughly on the waist of his pants. Why won't they come off?

_Because he's sitting back on his heels, genius._

She gives him a little shove, and he gets the message, smiling almost shyly as he slides onto the floor and tosses his wallet on the desk.

Leaning all the way back onto her elbows, she watches him with lowered lids as he slowly drops his pants _. Damn!_  Instead of coming right back to her, he leans over and tugs on the hem of her skirt with both hands. She lifts her hips off the desk as he shimmies the material over her hips and down her legs.

_I am so glad I went with a matching bra and panty set today._

He eyes her heels, appreciatively, and she knows him. He'd much rather she leave them on, but he goes ahead and slides them off her feet.

Now he's staring at her, and she's literally tingling all over from the heat of his gaze.

He climbs back up, and kneels over top of her. Eyes predatory.

_That's my boy._

_Just how I like you._

He unconsciously licks his lips.

_FUCK!_

Her breasts are tight and begging for contact.

_Do something. Put your hands on me. Put your mouth on me. Get the fuck inside me._

He leans forward to kiss her.

Gia's voice returns on the intercom. "So hey, has Dick even asked about me?"

Veronica can't help but snort out a laugh. He smirks down at her -  _there he is -_  and just to be an ass, pops open her bra, exposing her breasts before turning to the phone and pressing the intercom button.

_Fucking tease. Touch me already!_

"Gia?" he says, voice now deceptively calm.

_"_ Yes?"

"That noise you heard earlier?"

"Yeah?"

"I was clearing off my desk to have sex. Which you've managed to interrupt four times now."

"GAWD!" Gia says. "I mean I know masturbation is a natural and healthy part of the human experience and everything – some studies say that 95% of men do it – but would it kill you to do it in the bathroom or something?"

Veronica throws her head back and laughs. He flicks her nipple with his thumb and index finger and tries to fight a smile.

He inhales and exhales, striving for calm before pushing the button to answer. "Actually Gia, I have somebody here with me. Somebody I really really want to have sex with, and if you fucking ruin this for me, I will fire you faster than your head can spin. Now leave, for God's sake."

_Ruin it for you? As if I've ever been the one to put on the breaks between us?_

He dips his chest just enough to graze her breasts with the soft hair on his chest, before pulling back up with that awful damn -  _beautiful_  - smirk of his.

"Well why didn't you just say that in the first place? How would I have ever guessed that? I'll clear your schedule and see you tomorrow."

He groans in relief. Pushes the button. "Thank you."

Veronica reaches for him, but he holds up a finger. Keeps an eye on the intercom, his eyes saying  _'Wait...for...it'_.

Gia's voice returns. "And you firing me? As if! You need me a lot more than I need this job. Like you could ever figure out how to run this office without me."

"You're absolutely right. You're the oil that keeps the wheels squeaky around here. Or something like that."

"Good. Now enjoy your sex or whatever. You deserve it."

He closes his eyes and shakes his head in disbelief. Waits silently. Makes the hurry-up gesture at the intercom, while Veronica looks on.

Gia speaks. "Um...the Clorax Wipes are in the utility closet behind my desk. For...you know. The broom and dustpan are there too, in case you broke anything."

He pushes the button. "Good to know. Good night."

That must be what he was waiting for, because the moment he releases the button, his mouth is on Veronica's breast _. Oh my fucking...YES_. Sucking and swirling with his tongue, and... _yep, he still remembers that sensitive spot at the edge of the areola. FUCK_.

Her hands slide inside the back of his boxers _. Mine._ Dragging him against her, as she lifts to meet him.

As he lifts his head to switch to her other breast, she pushes at his waistband, baring his ass. He gives her a half-smile, and lifts up to his knees to drop the boxers, kicking them off a leg at a time.

_Uh oh. This is getting real._

She wraps her hand around his erection, and his head falls back.  _God, he feels perfect in my hand._ He exhales loudly at the ceiling before looking back at her.

She makes the mistake of meeting his eyes.

He's giving her that look. The look that no other man has ever been able to replicate. The one that says without words, ' _I see you clearly. I understand you like nobody else ever has. I love you completely and always will._ '

She pulls his face to her breast so he can't see the moisture flooding her eyes.

For months – ever since this whole ordeal started – her life has been hell. She's twitchy and on edge. Probably suffering from depression. Even before that, it's been a string of one bad relationship after another. She colder now. Her heart 'closed for business' for all intents and purposes.

But for a moment there, she'd thought ' _He could be my haven. He could keep me safe, and love me, and make me forget_.'

He probably would too, without complaint, but it would be cruel to use him that way.

So she loses herself in the physical - his lips on the sensitive undersides of her breasts. The solid feel of him in her hand. The little gasp he makes when she guides him closer, pressing him against her panties, and rocking up against him.

He shifts lower, palming her breast as he traces her ribs with his tongue. She inhales as he drags his teeth along the innermost curve of her waist. She knows what he's doing. Testing out the little spots that elicit responses from her.

_How can he remember more than the last three guys ever bothered to learn?_

She shivers all over when he runs his short fingernails lightly down the back of her thigh. Watches him smile into her skin.

He slides lower. Her stomach muscles clench as he kisses her hip bone. The muscles in her ass and thighs tighten as he kisses across her lower belly to her other hipbone. She fucking trembles when he presses his face to her panties. Every muscle in her body tenses to keep her hips from pushing up. She fails a moment later when he gently nips the inside of her thigh. He doesn't even try to hide his smirk.

_Teasing bastard._

He locks eyes with her as he reaches for her panties, and she holds her breath as he slowly peels them away from her hips and down her legs _._ She can't remember the last time she's felt this exposed.

Her legs are bent, feet flat on the desk, and he's between them, hugging her right leg and pressing his cheek to the inside of her knee. He's looking at her from under his lashes, and years seem to disappear from his face. He's sixteen years old again, and still thinks she's the answer to all of his prayers.

Her chest constricts almost painfully.

_Damn him! Sex isn't supposed to be like this._

Except…maybe it kinda is. For other people. People who aren't as broken and hardened as they are.

She smiles softly at him – gives him the go-ahead – and he's sprinkling kisses up her thigh, creating indescribable sensations in her belly.

Gia's voice comes over the intercom. "So how did this happen anyway? Did you finally sign up for that speed-dating service I recommended?"

Their eyes meet in disbelief, and then Veronica twists, and dives for the phone, holds down the intercom button, and speaks in her iciest voice. "Gia? If you interrupt one more time, I'm going to come out there, and trust me, I'm the last person you want to deal with."

"Okay, okay! I'm leaving now," Gia answers in a sullen voice.

"Make sure that you do."

When she releases the button and turns back, he is  _right there_. He's looking up at her in invitation, and kneading her inner thighs with his thumbs. She's almost scared, but she knows he enjoys this almost as much as she does. So she exhales, closes her eyes, and lets him guide her to his mouth. And when his tongue touches her clit…

"HOLY MOTHER OF WHAT THE FUCK!"

He snorts against her, and seriously, what the hell was that? Felt more like a live wire than a tongue.

_How can he still make me feel this way?_

Her body is as taut as a bowstring, neck bowed, chin up, fingers curled around the edge of the desktop behind her, as he alternates taps and dashes and circles with his tongue.

_Missed this so much._

She's all deep sighs and breathy moans when his fingers slide inside her, moving in and out in time with his tongue. As he increases his speed, her breathing becomes ragged. She feels as if she's gathering energy from every other region of her body, and redistributing it to the place between her thighs. She's babbling a steady stream of ' _ohmigodohmigodohmigod'_ , and when he gently sucks her clit into his mouth, she's exploding in waves of sensation, his name on her lips.

Then he's beside her, and she's cradled in his arms. He's whispering nonsense and kissing her, and all she can hear is the sound of her pulse between her ears.

* * *

She's different, but not as different as she thinks. Her hair is longer. The dark circles are new. She's obviously haunted by something.

But she kisses the same. She touches the same. Her body still responds to him – even more so, if that's possible. And the gleam in her eyes may have dimmed, but it's still there.

_If I have my way, we'll have it blazing back to life in no time._

_But first...the obligatory chase, because there no way in hell she's giving in this easily._

He'd seen the fear in her eyes when she'd first locked eyes with him. She hadn't been expecting him here, and she sure as hell hadn't come back for him.

_But if I'm lucky, she'll be staying for me._

His eyes widen when she rolls him over and straddles him. He gulps when he feels her wetness against him. His hands brace her hips to help her find a rhythm.  _Perfect._

If she knew the way his heart was palpating, she'd probably be gone already. If she knew the way he'd waited for this…

She's a tiny blond goddess looking down on him from above. Still so damn beautiful.

And he loves her.

Like always.

She's straddling him, one knee on the manila folder for the new Kane Wing at Neptune General. He's trying his damndest not to surge up into her.

Without taking his eyes off her, he feels around the desktop, finds a plastic bag with some kind of container inside, finds a post-it note pad, finally finds his wallet, and fishes out a condom.

Before he can even get it open, she's impaling herself on him, and he gasps. He hasn't been bareback since…her actually. She's the only one. Ever. The way she feels around him…can't even be described in words.

He palms her hips and guides her up and down, supporting her body weight as she rises, and letting gravity bring her back down. Her lips are slightly parted, her eyes glazed with passion, and he thinks it's the most beautiful sight he's ever seen. Overcome with emotion, he pulls her mouth down to his, kissing her long and slow as if trying to compensate for lost years. This has to be the pinnacle of his life. He thinks he could die happy now, inside Veronica Mars, kissing her.

When they part, she gives him an apologetic smile and slides off him. She reaches for the condom and rolls it over his cock before sliding him back inside her. He loves her even more for giving him those few minutes of how things used to be _._

_And hopefully will be again._

She entwines their fingers together, pausing to examine his left hand, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

_Not until you put one on me, baby._

She uses his hands as leverage, pushing against them to move a little faster, slam a little harder.

But it's too good. He's too close. He needs to slow things down.

Without withdrawing from her, he rolls her so that he's on top. He begins to rock inside of her, dipping his hips as she rises to meet him. Her legs wrap around his back, and he covers her neck and jaw with wet kisses, returning to her mouth every so often, breathing her in.

He locks eyes with her. And he knows he's probably telegraphing his feelings. Everything he felt for her six years ago. Everything he still feels today. He doesn't really care. He's come too far in life to start playing games now. And her eyes soften, and shift, and…

_Holy shit!_

_She still loves me!_

She loves him. She probably doesn't even know it herself, but he'd know that look anywhere. He sees it in his dreams. Veronica Mars still loves him.

She touches his face and lifts her head to give him the softest kiss. And he feels choked up inside. He feels like his soul has been injected with summer.

His chances are better than he'd initially thought.

_It won't be easy, but then you know what they say about the ones that come easy._

He shifts his hips, adjusting his angle, until her eyes tell him he's found the spot. Holding the pose, he watches her pupils dilate as she approaches climax again.

Together, their breathing becomes more labored as he slams into her faster and faster.  _Fucking love you. Fucking love you._ He watches her eyes as she comes, crying out his name again. The feel of her throbbing and contracting around his dick is too much for him to take, and he lets out a guttural moan, slamming hard into her one last time, and letting himself go.

He collapses on top of her, breathing in her perfume, and her essence. Feeling the pulse in her throat against his lips.

Once he has his breathing under control, he raises himself on his elbows, leaning down and planting a lingering kiss on her mouth.

"Welcome home, Bobcat." He smirks down at her.

"Hey, Logan." She smirks back.

* * *

**End episode one:**

Neptune wasn't waiting

But Logan was.

[ ](https://imgur.com/bNlEBPM)

 


	5. Episode Two - Part One - Neptune's Most Eligible Bachelor

**Neptune**

* * *

**Episode Two/Part One – Neptune's Most Eligible Bachelor**

* * *

_  
_ **County Supervisor's Office:**

_Once he has his breathing under control, he raises himself on his elbows, leaning down and planting a lingering kiss on her mouth._

_"Welcome home, Bobcat." He says smirking down at her._

_"Hey, Logan." She smirks back._

Logan disposes of the condom in the trashcan and rolls back to his side. His left hip and shoulder pressing into the hard wooden surface barely registers as he tries to process the fact that she's really here with him.  _Finally._

He's never stopped believing - at least not for long. Even while in relationships with others. Even though they've been apart now longer than they ever were together. He's always considered it a matter of  _when_  she'd be back in his arms rather than  _if._  But in his wildest dreams, he'd never imagined it could come about with so little effort. In fact, he'd assumed he would need to go to her.

He's not delusional enough to think this means they're back together. This was sex. But he can still produce a  _'kiss-now-talk-later'_  reaction out of her. Highly encouraging. So for now, he's giddy with happiness, and wants to cling to the feeling before reality intrudes.

Veronica is on her back, eyes closed, chest rising and falling. Smiling.

Nothing's changed - she still blisses out after sex, and he still chokes-up with emotion at the sight. He snakes his arm around her, pulling her snug against his body.

 _Thank you. Thank you. Thank you._ He sends up a silent stream of gratitude to the universe as he basks in the moment.

This will pass all too soon, so he glides his fingertips along her skin, memorizing the smooth texture. He buries his face in her silky hair, inhaling the scent. Scatters kisses on her forehead, cheeks, chin and lips.

It's going to hurt like hell when she goes, but right now, he's just so damn happy.

_Stretch this out. Make it last._

Her eyes open, and he's overwhelmed by the recognition in her stare - as if she can read his mind. He's been loved by other women - some have even loved him better - but nobody has ever truly  _known_ him like Veronica. Only one of many reasons she's irreplaceable to him.

"You're staring," she says.

"Yeah, I'm kind of in shock. Sex on my desk with a hot blonde wasn't exactly in my day planner."

"You  _don't_  carry a day planner." It's not a question.

"Fine. Sex with a hot blonde on my desk wasn't in Gia's day planner."

"Should I have made an appointment?"

"Next time," he says with more confidence than he actually feels. "Or...I could just schedule a recurring appointment? How's...everyday?Noon?"

"Logan...this was—"

He presses his mouth to hers - delaying the inevitable  _'This was a mistake'_  and she responds, lips parting, hands pulling him closer.

For a moment, she kisses him hard, as if she wants him to make her forget. Then she breaks away with a sigh, turning her face to the side. So he kisses her cheek and up her jawline to her neck.

"What the hell did I just do?" she moans in a voice that's a cross between a laugh and a cry.

He kisses down the column of her throat.

"This never should have happened."

He kisses the curve of her shoulder.

"Logan!"

"Yes, dear?"

"Do you always seduce girls who make the mistake of sneaking into your office?"

His fingers stroke circles on her belly. "Only the short ones."

Her lips curl up in amusement. "It's completely unprofessional, you know. You should try opening with something more businesslike, like ' _Welcome. How may I meet the needs of my constituency today?_ '"

"I liked my way better."

"I bet."

"And I can say with complete confidence that your needs were met."

Her fingertips brush the side of his jaw. "You sure about that?"

"Positive." He kisses the tip of her nose.

She glances away with a shy smile. "Cocky bastard."

" _Mayor_ Cocky Bastard."

"You're trying to distract me."

"Mmm-hmm" he nods, his mouth dropping to her breast, circling it with his tongue.

Veronica lets out a little gasp. "I actually came here for a legitimate reason. I can't afford to be-"

"Way laid?" Logan glances back up, attempting to appear contrite, but can't. All he can do is smile at her with amused adoration.

"Well?"

_Well what? Am I supposed to be sorry?_

Lifting up on his elbows, he looks down into her blue-green eyes.

"Say something, dammit!" she demands.

He touches her cheek, opening his mouth to say something appropriately witty and snarky, like..."I still love you."

_Oh. My. God._

_Way to keep things light, Logan._

"LOGAN!" Veronica says in exasperation, covering her face in her hands.

_Well, it's out there now. You've lost any semblance of cool, so better go brash._

"Veronica," he responds, removing her hands from her face. "I. Still. Love. You."

"How can you say that?"

He runs a hand through the front of his hair. "To be honest, I kind of surprised myself there, but then again, I've always regretted not saying it those times when it might have still made a difference."

"No. You don't get to do this."

"I don't? Fine, I'll start over. Give me my line again."

"What line? Oh...that…" She smirks and repeats her earlier words. " _Say something, dammit!_ "

Logan feigns an expression of exaggerated indifference. "So uh...that was...fun. I'll...um...call you some time. Or something." He breaks off in a snort of laughter. "I'm sorry. I can't. I'm too old for game playing."

"That's ridiculous. You're only twenty-six. You have plenty of game-playing years left in you."

"Well they've been a rough twenty-six years. Felt more like fifty-two."

"You know this is insane, right? I came here for a license extension, and I ended up being fucked on a desk!"

Logan smirks. "Actually, I was making love."

Veronica flings a forearm over her eyes - whether to block out the light or the truth, Logan's not sure.

He picks up his signature stamp - which somehow survived the sweeping of the desk - examining the rubber underside. "I've really missed you Veronica."

Her lips struggle to hide a smile.

"Have you missed me?" he asks, idly placing the name stamp on Veronica's lower abdomen near her left hipbone, and depressing it gently. She doesn't seem to notice.

_She's going to kill me for that._

"Maybe a little," she answers.

He likes the look of his name in crisp black ink against her pale white skin, and since he's already in trouble, he does it again on her right inner thigh.  _In for a penny, in for a pound._ "Liar. I think you missed me a lot."

"And I think your ego hasn't suffered in the passing years."

"Not at all. My ego's been running amok like...Flubber. That's what happens when you're not around to keep it in check."

This drags a grin out of her. He depresses the name stamp on her rib cage under her breast for good measure. She notices this time, uncovering her eyes and lifting up on her elbows to glance down at her body.

"What the hell did you do?" she yells, seeing his signature tattooing her body in three locations.

"Would you believe modern art?"

She rolls her eyes. "Right. What are you going to do? Mount me on the wall above your desk?"

Logan's eyes twinkle. "I'll happily mount you on the wall. I'll mount you on the desk. I'll mount you on a train. In the rain. On a boat. With a goat." He pauses. "Actually, let's skip the goat."

She narrows her eyes, threateningly and point at the signature on her rib cage.

"Just making sure you don't forget me again. At least for a few days."

* * *

_Puppy Dog Eyes._

The fact that she's not super pissed at him for marking her skin is a sure sign that Veronica needs to get the hell out of here. She's made all sorts of stupid mistakes based on her weakness for those eyes.

"I have to go." She pushes halfway to a sitting position, but Logan stops her.

"Careful." He chuckles and gathers her hair loosely at the top of her head with his hands, twisting it into a messy bun and tucking in the ends the same way he'd seen her do it dozens of times. "Stay for desert."

 _How does he know I brought desert?_ "That's okay. It's all yours."

"I was hoping you'd say that," he says, sitting up. He hands her a sticky plastic bag and his lips move across her back.

"Tiramisu?" he asks.

Veronica has to peel the bag open to peek inside. She finds the styrofoam container from The Hut crushed and mangled, creamy desert spilling out everywhere.

"Wild guess...I'm wearing it?"

He answers by drawing a circle with his finger around her shoulder blade and part of her back.

"I can clean it off in the bathroom," she says, halfheartedly.

"Please don't." He crosses his legs and pulls her onto his lap. "I've got this."

_We still fit together like a perfect pair of nesting dolls._

_Oh, what the hell._ She fishes out a corner of the silverware packet - enough to rip open and extract a spoon without getting her fingers sticky - and digs at what's left of the desert in the container. It's no longer cold - more like room temperature - which explains how she hadn't noticed it on her skin. Still, it's delicious. "Mmm that  _is_  good."

"My new favorite desert."

She rolls her shoulders as his lips move across her skin. Her entire back is one large pleasure center, and he's been known to take advantage of that fact in the past.

"So, you done yelling at me?" Logan asks between kisses.

"I haven't begun to yell at you," she answers, without any real heat. "So explain to me how this happened."

"I carried you to my desk, stripped you naked, and made sweet love to you."

"Not that, dork." She laughs. "How in the hell does Logan Echolls, most hated person in Neptune become County Supervisor? Especially at the tender age of twenty-six."

" _You_  don't seem to hate me very much." Logan reaches a hand around, palming her breast to demonstrate his point. "And it helps when you run unopposed."

"Unopposed?" Her voice is a little too breathy. It's hard to concentrate with his hands on her. His mouth on her.

"I wasn't supposed to have a chance in hell of winning."

"So why'd you even bother?"

He raises his mouth from her skin. "Campaign experience. I wanted this for the future. Five or so years down the road. So this was the first step in cleaning up my reputation."

"And?"

"And then two weeks before the election, Jeff Wilson had a fatal heart attack. And here I am."

"Here you are."

"Naked on my desk."

Scraping another bite of layered desert out of the broken container, she licks the spoon slowly. She thinks she may be going into sensory overload - Logan's tongue and sweet mascarpone cheese, Logan's teeth and cocoa, Logan's hands and coffee and ladyfingers. It's too too much.

Shaking herself, she tries to pick up the thread of their conversation _. Logan and politics._

"But I don't understand why you wanted to go into politics. It's not surfing or video games or partying and binge drinking."

"Look at you trying to bait me." She can hear the indulgent smile in his voice. "I know your tricks, Veronica Mars."

"What tricks? Who's playing tricks?"

"You can't ruin my moment of bliss by questioning my ambition. I grew up. Had to happen eventually."

"By becoming a  _politician_  of all things?"

"Why is that so surprising? Remember when I won the essay contest and interned for the pedophile freak?"

"You mean the one where you plagiarized  _Easy Rider_?"

"The five page essay where a  _single paragraph_  plagiarized Easy Rider? Yeah, that one."

"I remember."

"Well, when Woody wasn't trying to grope me, I actually kind of enjoyed it."

"Woody tried to grope you?" She crumples up the plastic bag and tosses it in the garbage, suddenly nauseated.

"Not like that," Logan answers, and leans forward to kiss her cheek in reassurance. "He fondled my bicep. Could have been much worse. Point is, I watched closely while he did what he did as County Supervisor, and filed it away as something I could see myself doing someday."

"Why didn't you ever mention it to me?"

Logan exhales heavily, taking a moment to choose his words. "I guess with you, it was easier to appear directionless than to try and fail, and see the disappointment in your eyes."

"Logan, I—"She trails off, not knowing what say.

"It was a long time ago, Veronica. I'm not that guy anymore."

"How so?" she asks with a forced laugh. "You stopped caring what I think?"

"I stopped failing," he says simply, and it doesn't sound like a boast. "…and I'll always care what you think."

Her stomach flip-flops, and she's glad he's behind her so he can't see her blush.

Two large hands brace her waist and lift her up as if she weighs no more than a bag of sugar. He straightens his legs out in front of him, and Veronica shifts to straddle his thighs, but before she can sink back down onto his lap, he wraps both arms tightly around her, forcing her to stay tall on her knees. She nearly comes as he traces the path of her spine with his tongue, letting out a moan before she can help herself.

He laughs, and slides a large hand between her legs, fingers making lazy circles against her flesh.

"Logan…" she breathes, and this time he's the one who moans.

_Still a sucker for hearing his name on my lips, I see._

He lowers her to his lap, leaning forward to kiss her neck. He's hard against her back, and she needs only to shift and she could have him inside her again.

_So much for that hasty retreat I was planning._

"You're still trying to distract me."

"Yes. Yes I am. Glad you noticed." He slides one long finger inside of her.

"Fuck, Logan!"

He leans forward, kissing her long and hard. When he pulls away, she's light headed. She allows her head to drop back onto his left shoulder to give him more access to her throat. "So any regrets? About your career choice?"

"None. I love my job, and I've been doing a decent job at it." He nips at her shoulder, while his free hand moves to her breast.

She inhales and arches into his hand. "What do you love about it?"

"Everything," he bites the intersection of her neck and shoulder and she almost comes up off the desk. "Except budgeting and council meetings. Luckily, Gia's good with the budget."

"How do you explain Gia." She's surprised she can still formulate words, with the way his hands are making her feel.

"She drives me nuts, but she's like family."

She intends to ask  _'why would you hire somebody who drives you nuts?'_ , but with the increased pressure of his fingers against her clit, she only manages to croak out a "Why?"

He understands the question. "There aren't any living former County Supervisors." Kisses her shoulder. "Wilson's dead, and his assistant, Jeannie retired to Florida." Kisses her throat. "Woody Goodman is dead." Kisses along her jawline. "And his assistant, Bev, left town to try her hand at modeling. Woody's predecessor is dead. Gia is literally the only living person in Neptune who knows how to run the mayor's office. Had to beg and bribe her to come work for me."

"And she never lets you forget it?"

"To put it mildly. And why are we talking about Gia? We have better things to be doing right now."

_Good question._

She sighs. "You'd better have another condom on you."

* * *

Veronica's eyelids are made of lead.

_Falling asleep would be so heavenly right now._

She doesn't remember them relocating to his giant leather executive's chair, but here she is, cradled in his arms, listening to the rise and fall of his breath.

_Logan. For such a disaster, he sure is perfect. His scent. The temperature of his body. The way he automatically arranges himself to keep me comfortable._

"So why aren't you sleeping, Veronica?"

She cracks an eyelid. "I was  _this_  close. Thanks for breaking the spell."

He chuckles. "You always were the guy, passing out right after sex."

"Sleeping is hardly a male-dominated pursuit," she mumbles.

"Nice attempt at evasion, by the way. What's up with the dark circles?" He gently kisses the delicate skin under each eye.

"You even  _think_  the name Steve Buscemi, you will suffer unspeakable pain."

"Why haven't you been sleeping?" he repeats in a firm voice.

Veronica sighs. "There was a case, and it got a little too far under my skin, but I'm sure I'll be sleeping like a baby soon, now that I'm home.

"You catch the guy?"

"No."

"You're leaving something out."

"I'm burned out, Logan. Homicide isn't working for me anymore."

He examines her eyes and she feels like she's under a microscope. "You're hiding something."

And just like that, she needs to escape. She shoves his arms away and pushes out of the chair.

"Veronica…don't."

"I told you I'm burned out, and you called me a liar. I'd like to see you trying to deal with the things I see on a daily basis. Every day having to break the news to family and friends that their loved ones are never coming home again." She locates her bra and underwear, and is searching for her skirt, when he spins her around.

"Look at me." He takes her face between his hands. "You forget how well I know you."

"I don't think you know me at all," she mutters petulantly.

"I have seen you burned out. I've seen you exhausted - both physically and mentally. I've seen you suffering from sleep deprivation. I've seen you on the verge of collapse at the end of your rope. The one thing I have never seen is Veronica Mars walking away before the bad guy's been punished."

She turns away to avoid his scrutiny, using the distraction to wiggle into her underwear. She slips her arms into her bra straps, and snaps the front. He's right of course. Were this any other case, she would have solved it before walking away from the force. More likely, she would have solved it and stayed on the force, too stubborn to acknowledge how miserable the job made her.

She turns now, meeting his eyes. "Even Veronica Mars knows to take herself out of the situation when doing so will prevent needless death."

He searches her eyes for a moment, ascertaining that she's telling the truth this time. "You want to talk about it?" he asks quietly.

"No."

"Succinct and to the point," Logan says with a nod. "If you change your mind, I'm here."

"Noted." Her skirt is on the floor and relatively unwrinkled. She wiggles it over her hips and zips, still searching for her blouse.

_There. Under the desk._

"So you're planning to stick around town?" He scoops up his underwear from the desk chair and steps into them, looking ridiculously sexy in the crimson silk boxers.

_And here's where things get weird._

"Even if I am, this…" She points between herself and Logan. "...isn't going to become a  _thing_."

"A little late for that, Ronnie."

She moves to put space between them, retrieving her shirt and slipping it onto her shoulders. "This can't happen again."

"Veronica…"

"I mean it, Logan. I just got out of a—"

He interrupts. "Don't try to tell me you're on the rebound. That was not rebound sex. That was..." He trails off searching for words. "...reunion sex. The start of something, not the end."

She's having a hard time summoning a proper sense of finality as well.

"I'm not on the rebound. I just...there was this guy. And I was pretty sure we were on the same page. I didn't want anything serious, and neither did he."

Logan's discomfort with the subject is apparent by the way he exhales and turns away, but she barrels on. She needs to get this out. "But when I made it clear to him that I wouldn't be seeing him anymore, he had a bit of a...meltdown. Out of nowhere, he's confessing to having deep feelings for me and not wanting to let me go."

Logan cringes, snagging his pants from the floor. "Bet you loved that."

"I've had worse breakups. He didn't smash a lamp." She smirks to soften her words.

Logan holds up an index finger. "In my defense, it was a very rude lamp." He steps into his pants and zips them up.

"I'm just saying, Logan...I'm not looking for a relationship, and I'm not going to risk making the same mistakes I made with him."

"Why aren't you looking for a relationship?"

She can't help but laugh.  _Who asks that question?_ "Relationships and I aren't compatible." She glances at her hands, and then back up. "They never work out for me."

Logan shakes his head. "That's not a sign that relationships are bad. That's your subconscious telling you you're trying to date the wrong man."

She crosses her arms over her chest, tilting her head, eyes challenging. "And I suppose you think you know who the right man is?"

"Easy." He moves into her personal space, lifting fingertips to her jaw. "Me," he says against her soft unresisting lips. "Me." He kisses her cheek. "Only me." He whispers in her ear.

"Logan..." she sighs, disappointed when he takes a step back, reaches for her blouse and begins fastening the buttons, bottom to top. _Seduction in reverse._

"We've tried having a relationship. Several times. We didn't work either."

"Yet, here we are." He motions to their proximity, the desk, and their states of undress. "I'm not that same guy anymore. I've grown up. I've changed."

"But I haven't," Veronica says.

"Good," he says, looking at her with such intensity that her knees go weak.

_Would it be sending the wrong message if I told him I wanted to go for another round? Immediately?_

"You haven't changed all that much, Logan." She says with forced lightness.

"I've changed like crazy. It's the pull between us that's still the same."

 _The same? Try magnified. "_ So there's still a physical attraction. Hardly earth shattering news."

"From where I was sitting, your earth was good and shattered. But you know I wasn't talking about physical attraction. You feel this pull as much as I do."

She sighs. "Logan, I came back here to get healthy. To walk away from a job that made me miserable every single day. And I neither want nor need romance in my life. Now I should get going."

"Wait," Logan tugs on her hand. "You've had your say. Now it's my turn."

"Fine, what do you want to say?"

"I intend to change your mind," he says simply, with that earnest almost-smile he uses when he's trying to be non-threatening and adorable. She doesn't trust it. He's used the same smile in the past before cutting her with his razor wit.

Veronica rolls her eyes. "How? What do you think you can do?  _Make_  me fall in love with you?"

She regrets the words immediately, as her intention is not to inflict wounds. Strangely enough, he doesn't look hurt at all. In fact, his eyes are twinkling.

"I don't need to make you love me," he says, lips curling up in that maddeningly sexy smirk. "Because you've never stopped."

The moment seems to hang as if poised on the edge of a precipice. Her heart pounds, and a dozen arguments spring to the tip of her tongue, but he continues speaking before she can protest, reaching out to cup her cheek with his large hand. "What I do intend to do, is to erase that haunted look from your eyes and make you happy again."

"Happy?" she repeats numbly.

"Deliriously." He kisses her forehead.

She turns her back to him before she can do something stupid, like tackling him to the ground and covering his face with kisses.

_That would surely count as mixed signals._

The warmth of his body presses against her back and his arms come around her.

"Do what you need to do, Veronica," he says, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Run, or whatever. I'll have to accept that it's your right to reject me painfully and repeatedly." He snickers, and she thinks he's forgotten how rejection feels. "But you walking in here out of the blue was a sign, and I'm not going to waste it. I'm going to charm you at every opportunity, and there's nothing you can do about it."

"A restraining order would do the trick."

"Right…" he laughs, and changes his voice to that high pitch guys use when they're imitating girls. "Oh officer. Keep him away from me. He's too handsome and sexy, and I'm afraid I won't be able to control my urges whenever he's around. Make him take away the temptation."

"I'm a trainwreck, Logan. You've made it this far without me, you don't need me now."

"Maybe not." He runs his fingers down her arm. "But I want you."

She half-turns, leaning into his chest for a moment, absorbing his warmth, inhaling his essence. Then she lifts up on her tiptoes and kisses him on the cheek. "I'm leaving now."

"Don't reject the guy I used to be, Veronica," he says. "Get to know the guy I am now."

She slips out of his arms, collects her purse, and moves towards the door. She can't help but add a little switch to her step.

_Way to encourage the lunatic._

"Dinner?" he calls after her.

"Goodbye, Logan."

She unlocks the door and steps out into the reception area before allowing herself a small grin.

"Clorox Wipes are in the cabinet behind Gia's desk," she calls back over her shoulder.

* * *

**Alberta Drive:**

Three blocks from city hall, after the radio DJ's finish shilling for a laser hair-removal company, the four opening piano notes of the next song kicks in.  _ **'Something always brings me back to you. Never takes too long.'**_

"Fuck you, Sara Bareilles!"

Veronica stabs the power button and pulls the vehicle over to the side of the road. Slamming the car into park, she allows her head to fall backwards onto the headrest.

_Mother Fucker!_

_I am never going to be over stupid Logan Echolls!_

She did not come back to Neptune to reunite with her volatile ex-boyfriend. She came home to prevent senseless death. And for an investigative career that didn't make her want to drown in vodka every night. One more energizing than life-draining.

She'd accepted a long time ago, she wasn't cut out for romantic entanglements. Men came into her life, confessed their undying love, and then tried to change everything about her. They silently sniffed their disapproval. Begged and demanded. Issued ultimatums. Made accusations. Called her names.

They tried to manipulate her into traditional feminine roles. Offered marriage and babies and picket fences if she would only walk away from everything that made her Veronica Mars. Accused her of emasculating them when she refused their oh-so-generous offers.  _Emasculation._ Eventually, they all used that word. Blamed her for their cheating, or their erectile dysfunction, or their Madonna/Whore complexes.

So she'd sworn-off romance. Encased her heart in a solid block of ice. And she liked it that way.

But Logan is a serious threat.

Since their first kiss, they've burned like a raging destructive wildfire. How else do you explain kissing your worst enemy and being unable (or unwilling) to stop?

She was a girl who liked to plot and plan. Dot the I's. Cross the T's. But any five minutes around Logan was enough to demonstrate how very little control she actually possessed. His presence in her life brought uncertainty and chaos. And that loss of control caused her stress, but also made her breathless and exhilarated. Reeled her in, and drove her away.

How was the protective ice around her heart supposed to withstand that kind of heat?

Her feelings for Logan were always her most closely guarded secret. Sure, her friends and family all suspected she loved him, but nobody had ever grasped the full depth of her feelings - least of all, Logan himself.

To the outside world, she was the ultra-competent Veronica Mars. Straight A student. Excellent investigator. Daughter. Friend. Girlfriend. A more-or-less balanced life. Priorities in check. Never one to wrap her life around a boyfriend - any boyfriend.

Nobody ever knew how she could barely go three minutes without thinking of him. How she'd breathed his name in and out hundreds of times a day. She'd woken to thoughts of him. Pictured him as she drifted off to sleep. She had loved him like he was her religion. She had loved him so much it terrified her. And he'd never even suspected.

Because letting somebody know they were your world gave them power over you. And Veronica had stopped giving away that kind of power the day she woke up without her underwear in Shelly Pomroy's guest bedroom.

She'd had the opportunity to observe countless relationships over the years – in her both personal life and professional life – and in that time, she'd yet to see one with an equal balance of power. At least on the surface. One party was always more invested. After witnessing the destruction of her family, she'd worked hard to ensure she would never be that party.

She didn't think it always came down to which person loved more, but rather which partner was more comfortable with vulnerability. Logan, who'd had every reason to guard his heart, had presented it to her fully and without reservation. To the extent she'd wanted to shake him sometimes. He should've known better - people will always let you down.  _She'd_  let him down on more than one occasion.

Sometimes she thinks she's been ridiculous. What's the worst that could've happened if she had looked someone in the eye and said ' _I love you_ '?

Would it make her instantly weak? Unloved? Taken for granted? Abandoned?

In her more self-reflective moments she thinks, maybe it's simply the plight of the abandoned child. Society teaches us parents should always put their children first. So when your mother abandons you for the local software tycoon, or a bottle of Absolut, you have to ask yourself ' _What makes me unworthy?_ '

It's like having a built-in relationship sabotage button. You expect others to treat you the same way. So you push and prod. Throw up impossible obstacles to test their love. Each passed test leading to another. You subconsciously justify that you're weeding out the weak and unworthy. If they're going to abandon you, better they do it now, before you're invested. You form your hypotheses -  _people you love will let you down_  - and then force them to prove it.

So in the end, her fear of expressing vulnerability has been a hindrance in maintaining a relationship. But that doesn't mean she doesn't experience it. More than ever, lately.

Her life has literally been ripped apart by this killer. She's as close to damaged as she's been since Shelly's party. She should probably be in therapy, and on any given night, there's a 15% chance she might curl up into a ball and cry. Logan Echolls is the very last complication she needs in this weakened state.

But she can't help the small smile from curling up the corners of her lips.

_He's not married._

_And the sex is just as mind-blowing between us as it ever was._

_And he still loves me._

_He. Still. Loves. Me._

Somehow, despite the fact that everything else in the world has changed, he's still _her_  Logan - affectionate, adoring, brilliant-in-bed, Logan.

Like an addict, she's only blocks away from his office, and she already wants more. Lots. More. She feels fucking fantastic. The lethargy - her constant companion for months - is conspicuously missing. Her body is practically humming with energy.

If she could, she would make this a nightly arrangement - slip in and slip back out before the sheets were cold. Obtain all of the benefits without any of the consequences.

But Logan and Veronica can't do casual. It's always been all-or-nothing between them.

So it can only be nothing.

And  _that_  is a damn shame.

* * *

 

**Java the Hut**

Veronica slips her sunglasses onto her face, and pushes open the back door of Java the Hut, stepping out into the early evening sunlight. It's cooled off a bit from the warmth of earlier, but the scent of warm tar is still perceptible in the air.

She sips her drink through the hole in the lid, and scans the small parking lot, ignoring a group of girls approaching from the left, and angling towards her Sebring, parked off to the right.

"Veronica Mars?"

She knows that voice. And remembers the headaches it's prone to trigger.

 _Can't I catch a break today?_ After her encounter with Logan, all she wants is to self-medicate with her super-sized caramel latte.  _Is that too much to ask?_

"Veronica, wait!" The voice draws nearer.

She calculates the distance to her car (too damn far), and then turns, bracing herself and pasting on her phoniest smile. "Madison Sinclair."

Veronica hates to admit, but her old nemesis looks good. Dressed conservatively in crisp black dress pants, a lightweight aqua sweater, and strappy black heels, she clutches a leather executive's portfolio in her right hand. Her makeup is tasteful, no longer applied with a spatula, and her hair – side-parted and pulled into a low ponytail – is a flattering brunette shade. Something is fundamentally different about her, and it takes Veronica a moment to realize - she's neither simpering nor sneering.

Behind Madison, Caitlin Ford – sporting a sleek bob and a raspberry colored sheathe dress - is flanked by two more plastic looking girls. The taller one, platinum blonde with thick bangs and a super-short black dress, Veronica vaguely recognizes from Hearst – typical mean girl. The other, slightly shorter than Veronica, is a strawberry-blonde, wearing a khaki shorts suit. All carry folders or envelopes. They hang back as Madison draws closer.

"Hi, Veronica," Madison says. "When did you get back?"

 _As if you care?_ "Yesterday."

Madison glances over her shoulder to address her three companions. "Go on ahead. I'll meet you inside in a minute."

The trio of blondes make no move to walk away. "We'll wait for you," Caitlin answers with a malicious smirk. "Hi, Veronica."

Madison frowns at their refusal to leave, while Veronica removes her sunglasses and acknowledges Caitlin's greeting with a noncommittal wave.

_Madison doesn't seem to like her friends very much. Can't say I blame her._

"So...How long are you staying in Neptune?"

"I haven't decided yet." Veronica answers, glancing longingly towards her car.

"Veronica. Listen…" Madison lowers her voice, although the effort is wasted with the three girls hovering right behind her. "I just wanted to say I feel bad about the stuff that went down years ago. I could be a real bitch back then."

_Wow. Didn't see that one coming._

Caitlin and her companions glance among themselves with undisguised glee.

"What do you want, Madison?" Veronica asks.

"I don't  _want_  anything." She answers. "Except to apologize." She has the resolved demeanor of somebody who is forcing herself to do something unpleasant, but necessary.

_What could she possibly gain by being nice to me?_

"What is this, some kind of twelve-step program thing?"

Something flickers in Madison's eyes. Barely perceptible to anyone but a trained observer.

_Which I just happen to be._

Veronica sighs. "Okay. Apology accepted. Now if you'll excuse me…"

"Wait." Madison puts a hand on her arm. "We're organizing a Bachelor Auction tomorrow night to benefit the Neptune Food Bank." She pages through her leather folder, extracting a program and handing it to Veronica. It's printed on semi-gloss colored stock and must have cost a fortune to have printed in bulk - money that could have gone to the charity. At first glance, Veronica recognizes the names of half a dozen bachelors including Wallace Fennel, Dick Casablancas, and, of course, Logan Echolls.

Veronica sighs. Pretending to be civil is exhausting. "Honestly, I've had a long day and just want to get home."

"Oh. Well you should at least come to the auction."

"I'm considering going. For the sake of supporting Wallace Fennel."

"Logan will be there." Madison says, as if his name wasn't right on the list - in the position of honor. "Maybe you two..."

"Logan, huh?" Veronica's voice sharpens and her eyes narrow to chips of ice. "Well then I'm sure you'll have your checkbook ready."

Madison shakes her head. "It's not like that. I just thought...you might want advance notice."

"Why would I need a warning?"

"Logan  _is_  Neptune's most eligible bachelor. The competition will be fierce."

"Well then, thank goodness for your trust fund, huh?" Veronica answers. "You and Caitlin can fight it out for him."

Caitlin's lips turn up in a spiteful smirk, and she holds up her hand, sporting the world's most ostentatious bridal set. "Um...I'm married, Veronica." She aims a pointed glance at Veronica's empty left hand. "Some of us know how to keep a man. Plus, you might remember, I've already had Logan. He couldn't exactly hold my interest."

Veronica wants desperately to commit violence. "I still carry a taser, Caitlin," she says through gritted teeth.

_How can this stupid girl make light of cheating on Logan and screwing with his head?_

"Whatever, Veronica Mars. You're not going to tase me in front of all these witnesses."

Madison shoots Caitlin a frown. "Can you just wait inside?"

"No, I'm good," Caitlin answers, not about to miss any drama.

Clearly frustrated, Madison turns back to Veronica. "Can we start over? Or go somewhere to talk privately?"

Veronica sighs. "Madison, I appreciate your apology, but we're not going to become coffee buddies. I still don't like you, and I never will."

Madison's companions titter, and she shoots them a glare over her shoulder before turning back to Veronica. "My intention isn't to start a fight with you. I'm trying to be friendly."

"You speaking Logan's name to me is a guaranteed fight starter, now if you don't mind—"

Caitlin inserts herself into the conversation. "Everybody knows Veronica dumped Logan after he hooked up with you in Aspen, Madison."

_I get it now. This is a nightmare, right? Any minute now, I'll wake up._

The other blondes lean forward as if sharks to blood.

"So it's true?" Madison asks. "You really broke up over  _that_?"

"It's nobody's business why we broke up," Veronica says, aware that denying is as good as admitting.

"Logan told John that Madison gives the best blowjobs he's ever had." Caitlin says.

Veronica hasn't experienced real jealousy since seeing Logan with Parker before she left Neptune. She's reminded now how it feels. Like a battering ram to the gut. Back in college, when she'd obsessed over Logan with Madison a hundred different ways, record-level oral sex hadn't even occurred to her. She reacts without thinking. "Well she's certainly had enough practice on her knees."

Madison recoils as if she'd been physically slapped.

_What Madison? You've never hesitated to insinuate that I was a slut._

Madison squares her shoulders as if about to go into battle. "For your information, I never even went down on Logan in Aspen."

"I never said  _when_  he said it," Caitlin smirks and then turns to Veronica. "Madison used to give him his consolation blows every time Lilly dumped him."

Veronica's gut churns with nausea.  _So she was there before me? Did my fumblings even compare?_

"I never touched Logan when he had a girlfriend," Madison says. "And that includes Aspen. You were broken up at the time."

"I never said you did," Veronica mumbles still reeling from this latest bit of knowledge.

_I need to get the hell out of here, because I think I'm about to snap._

"I didn't lure him away from you, Veronica. Was he supposed to have a signed permission slip or something?"

"Okay, well this conversation is becoming a little too 'High School' for me, so I'm out of here."

"Didn't you know?" Caitlin says, as Veronica sidesteps Madison and starts walking away. "Veronica's exes are supposed to wait patiently on the shelf until she's ready to give them the time of day again. Just ask Duncan Kane."

"Right," Madison's voice comes from behind her. "Meg Manning would still be alive if Veronica hadn't crooked her finger at him."

Veronica freezes. A red haze seems to take over her vision, and then she's spinning around and storming back, not even trying to keep her voice down. "You are a vindictive bitch and I hate you. Keep pissing me off, and I will make you wish you were never born.

Caitlin looks entirely too pleased with herself, and a mother leading her two small children into The Hut, stops to scowl at Veronica.

_Crap._

Veronica continues in a quieter voice. "You know what? I did break up with Logan because of Aspen.  _He knew_  how much I despised you. You represented everything I loathed in the world."

Madison's face settles into the haughty expression Veronica remembers so well. "Wow. You're still as much of a bitch as ever, Veronica. I was trying to be a nice, but if you want to take the gloves off, so be it." She takes a step closer. "You had Logan Echolls.  _Logan Echolls._ You know how many girls in this town would kill for the opportunity to date him?" She gestures vaguely at Caitlin's blonde minions. "And you not only dated him, but he was madly in love with you."

"Am I supposed to be surprised by your jealousy?" Veronica asks, more composed now. Petty jealousy she can deal with. "Your crush on Logan was never a secret. Lilly used to joke about it back in Junior High. Guess you finally got your turn in Aspen. Hope it was worth it."

"You think it was worth it?" Madison asks incredulously. She takes another step closer and lowers her voice. "It was the most humiliating experience of my life."

Veronica steps back in surprise. "I don't want to hear this."

"Too bad. I'm going to tell you all about Aspen. You should know what you threw your boyfriend away for."

"No. I really shouldn't—"Veronica begins.

_I was over this. I was really over this._

"He wasn't looking to hook up, you know," Madison speaks over her. "He was already beyond trashed when I ran into him at the hotel bar, and he only wanted to talk. About you." She pauses to roll her eyes. "For. Two. Hours. All about you. How much he loved you. How all he ever did was disappoint you. How you'd be happier with somebody more cultured. Something about you getting yourself drugged and killed and not letting him help. It was pretty pathetic, honestly."

_Why didn't I keep walking? Nothing is worth having to listen to this._

Madison continues. "So by the time I took him to his room, he was so drunk that he passed out in the middle of sex. On top of me, and when he woke up and saw me, he ran away and puked. You think that was worth it?"

It takes a moment for Veronica to find her voice. "If it was so bad, why did you try to come back for more?"

"Because I was stupid!" Frustration is evident in Madison's voice. "You know, Logan's a nice guy and everything, but one day I just realized it was never really Logan I wanted, but a boyfriend who would look at me the way that Logan looked at Lilly. And then you."

Madison pauses for a second as if something has occurred to her - something that makes her almost smile - then she seems to remember where she is and who she's with and launches back in at Veronica. "So that's the sordid details of Aspen. How lucky are you to have me to blame for your breakup? Can't have you taking responsibility for the fact that you took him for granted, and you let him get away. Honestly you never deserved him."

"You know nothing about our relationship. And you  _wanted_  the blame. You couldn't wait to tell me how you'd hooked up with him. You wanted to break us up."

"I wasn't aware that I wielded that much power in your relationship, Veronica." Madison says with a cruel smirk. "Now that I think about it, maybe I  _will_  bid on Logan at the Bachelor Auction tomorrow. I have a fifteen thousand dollar insurance check at home just waiting to be spent."

"Oh no!" Veronica covers her mouth pretending shock. "You've got me. Please don't bid on the guy I broke up with  _six years ago_." She rolls her eyes to show just how unaffected she is by the threat.

"It's not like  _you_  can afford to outbid me," Madison continues. "Pity, too. Buying him is probably the _only_  way you could get close to him these days, after the shameful way you treated him and broke his heart."

"You go right ahead and bid on him, Madison." Veronica says. "Imagine how many needy people that money will feed. In fact, I hope you and Logan have the best date ever."

Madison seems to realize all at once what she'd just committed to. Suddenly, she doesn't seem happy at all, and Veronica can actually believe that she has no interest in Logan anymore. She opens her mouth to speak – probably to backtrack – when an older lady approaches.

"Good evening, ladies," the woman says with an annoyed sniff. She has the air of a stuffy society matron. In her mid-fifties, wearing a yellow-green suit with a giant emerald brooch on her left lapel, her lips have the pursed look of chronic disapproval. "I was expecting you to be inside already."

"I'll be right in Mrs. Caldwell," Madison says, eyes sliding back to Veronica.

Veronica can't help herself.  _What's a little knife twisting between old enemies?_  With Caitlin and her evil minions turned away to greet the newcomer, Veronica holds Madison's gaze, fingers the hem of her blouse and lifts it - only an inch or two, pretending to scratch at her side. Madison's eyes squint in confusion and then widen in understanding. Veronica smirks contemptuously.

_What is wrong with me?_

_This is rock bottom, Veronica. You're actually fighting over a guy. One who hasn't been your boyfriend for years. Time to go._

"I trust there are no complications for tomorrow's bachelor auction?" Mrs. Caldwell asks.

Still reeling over the way she'd been had, Madison takes a moment to answer. "Everything's on track."

"Good. We still need to strategize. I intend for us to surpass Celeste Kane's summer fundraiser record by at least ten percent."

Fingers of ice run up Veronica's spine at the sound of the hated name.

Caitlin interrupts. "That shouldn't be a problem, Mrs. Caldwell. Madison here just announced her intention to bid fifteen thousand on Mayor Echolls."

"Madison, that's wonderful!" Mrs. Caldwell smiles genuinely. "I knew putting you in charge of this committee was the right choice. I can't wait to tell the other ladies at the club. They'll be so pleased."

Madison looks as if she wishes for the ground to open up and swallow her.

"Well...It's been anything  _but_  fun, Madison." Veronica says, stepping around her and rushing away to her car.

* * *

She's almost there. Almost to safety, when she hears Madison's voice behind her.

"Veronica, wait."

She keeps walking, but Madison catches up before Veronica can open the door of her car. "You dropped these," she says handing Veronica her sunglasses.

"Um...thanks," Veronica says, and reaches for her door handle. "Gotta go."

Madison stops her. "I never wanted to fight with you. I was only trying to be a good person and apologize. But Caitlin…"

"Don't look at me," Veronica says. "She's your friend."

"No, we're on a committee together. We don't socialize."

Veronica shrugs and reaches for her door handle.

"Why do you hate me so much?" Madison asks. "I mean, I know I was a bitch in high school, but you forgave Logan. I never did anything to you that he didn't."

"Why do you care? What's in it for you?"

Madison hesitates as if trying to be careful with her words. "It's a small town, Veronica. We're going to run into each other. It would be nice if we could be civil."

_She's leaving out something important._

Veronica sighs and leans back against her car. "I hate you for what you did to me at Shelly Pomroy's end of the year party, sophomore year."

Madison pauses to think. "Because I wrote 'slut' on your windshield, or do you mean because I spit in your drink? You're still hung up on that? I was fifteen years old, and to be fair, you did make out with my boyfriend that night, right in front of me, so I think we're even."

"I did NOT make out with your boyfriend!"

"You made out with everybody."

"I was DRUGGED! I told you that in the bathroom at school. And we aren't even close to even."

"So you really were drugged?" Madison asks, pensively. "I thought you were making that up as an excuse."

_Can she be any denser?_

"What? You wouldn't be the first to behave...um...promiscuously…and then try to blame it on alcohol or drugs. I've done it myself."

Veronica stares at her debating whether to continue.

_Fuck it. I have nothing to be ashamed of._

"I'll be crystal clear, Madison," she says in a deceptively calm voice. "I was raped at Shelly's party, and you are responsible."

"What?" Madison's eyes widen in what appears to be genuine shock. "I had no idea..."

Even with the paper band, Veronica's latte is becoming too hot. She switches the cup to her left hand. "Well now you do."

"I'm truly sorry to hear that, but how exactly am I responsible?"

"You're the one who drugged me."

"I did no such thing!"

Veronica exhales deeply, struggling to keep her composure. "The rum and Coke you handed me - the one you spit in - was dosed with GHB."

"So that's why you came after me at Logan's party? You thought I drugged you?"

"You did."

"GHB? Isn't that Liquid X? That doesn't even make any sense. I didn't have any GHB. I've never had any. Dick gave me that drink, anyway. There's no way he could have known I would give it to you."

"He didn't," Veronica says pointedly. "According to Luke, Dick didn't think you were putting out quickly enough."

Veronica watches Madison's eyes as the tumblers click into place.

Finally, she speaks. "So what you're saying is that Dick Casablancas put drugs in my drink with the intention of raping me?" She looks like she's about to vomit.

"Basically. Although I'm sure he'd use different words."

"But then I spit in the cup and handed it to you and he raped you instead?"

"No, he egged-on his little brother to do it."

"You were raped by the  _psycho_?" Madison's voice rises at the last word.

"Yes." Veronica breathes deeply to combat the nausea. "And thanks to you, I was too unconscious to fend him off." She leaves it at that. She doesn't even want to get into the Duncan side of the story. From what she'd pieced together, she'd already been violated before he'd ever stumbled into that bedroom.

A range of emotions crosses Madison's face before she speaks again. "I wouldn't wish rape on anybody."

"Good to know you're not a sociopath. And now that I've relived one of the worst moments in my life, I'm going to leave."

"Wait a second. I'm not done."

Veronica sighs and shifts her weight to her other foot.

"I am truly sorry for my small part in your rape," Madison begins. "Truly. But how  _dare_  you pin the blame on me."

Veronica's jaw drops. "Excuse me?"

"I was the intended victim."

 _I can't believe this girl._ "You're making this about you?"

"Kind of hard not to, Veronica. I just learned that I narrowly escaped being raped by my ex-boyfriend, which is a bit of a shock. And I want to sympathize with what you went through - I really do - but it's kind of hard to when I know that you wish it was me that was raped that night."

"I never—"

"You're basically saying I'm at fault for  _not_  being raped?"

"I didn't—"Veronica begins.

"So of the three parties involved: myself, a fifteen year old girl pulling a childish prank with the intent to be a bitch. Dick, who willfully drugged a drink with the intent to rape me, And Beaver who actually assaulted you. Of those three people,  _I'm_ the one you hold responsible?"

Veronica's eyes narrow, but Madison is just getting started. "You're letting Dick off the hook when he was the one who drugged you."

"I never said I let Dick off the hook."

"You kind of did, when you let him move in with your boyfriend."

"That's between Logan, Dick, and me. It's none of your business."

"It's my business when I've been the scapegoat all this time."

"Madison," she says through clenched teeth. "I understand that this has come as a shock to you. Learning that your boyfriend intended to drug and have sex with you. And I can understand where the first instinct would be to become defensive over your culpability. BUT IT WASN'T YOUR BODY THAT WAS VIOLATED!"

She forcibly moves Madison – only enough to allow her to open her car door – but one of her skinny heels gets caught in a parking lot rut, and she falls down on her ass.

"Crap," Veronica says. "I didn't mean to do that."

She holds out a hand to help her up, but Madison shakes her head warily. "I'm fine. Just go, Veronica."

Not needing to be told twice, she slides into her car, slamming the door behind her. She watches Madison brushing herself off in the rearview as she pulls away from the parking lot.

Maybe it was time to put the past behind her. Madison had a point. She'd never intended for Veronica to be raped.

_It's not like I don't have much more serious problems than a high school rivalry._

She recalls Madison's threat to bid on Logan at the auction.

_I'll let go of the past on Monday. Give me one last bitter weekend._

* * *

 

**Cindy MacKenzie's Residence - Sandpiper Condominiums**

Finally home from work, Mac decides to give it one more try to reach Veronica, dialing the Mars' residence this time. She hooks on her blue-tooth earpiece to free up her hands and slips out of her work clothes while she listens to the phone ring.

Five rings later, she's about to hang up when Veronica answers, sounding breathless.

"Hello?"

"Veronica, it's Mac. Were you exercising or something?" She pulls on a pair of yoga pants and flips through her closet for a tee shirt.

Veronica chuckles. "No, just got home. Had to jog to the kitchen to catch the phone. How's it going?"

_Okay, no perceptible chill in her voice._

"Great. I was afraid you were dodging my calls."

"Why? Did you try my cell?" Veronica asks.

"Only three times."

"Damn!" Veronica says. "Sorry 'bout that. I turned off my phone earlier to dodge somebody else's calls and forgot to turn it back on."

"Anybody I know?" Dressed, Mac stands in front of her bathroom mirror and pulls her short hair back into a low ponytail. The layers in the front immediately slip out of the hair tie, and she pushes them behind her ears.

"Who, Joe? No. He was my partner on the force. Oh look, three missed calls from my dad. Guess that explains why he let me wander into the belly of the beast."

"What beast? Do I know this beast?"

Veronica laughs. "Long story. So what's up?"

"I just wanted to apologize for not being able to make it to dinner last night."  _And speaking of dinner_...Mac stares inside her mostly empty fridge, too worn out to cook anything complicated, too tired to go out for takeout.

"Don't sweat it. Wallace filled me in on your work situation."

"Yeah, it's been crazy busy at work lately. It's my own fault, I guess. I should have set boundaries a long time ago." She decides on pasta. Doesn't take too long, doesn't require too much effort.

"What's stopping you?"

Mac pauses to consider how to articulate it. "I guess it's fear that I'll have come back and sweep up messes if I don't handle everything right from the start. It is Dick we're talking about here." She pulls a stockpot from the overhead rack and places it under the faucet to fill.

"Ahh…" Veronica says in her best generic Eastern European shrink voice. "You're exhibiting classic control freak behavior."

Takes one to know one," Mac returns with a sardonic twist of the lips. "So hey. I still want to get together. How's tomorrow for you?"

"Tomorrow...?" Veronica begins.

"Wait. Never mind. Have that bachelor's auction thing at the Neptunalia tomorrow." She turns on a stove burner and sets the pot to boil, before reaching for some boxed pasta in the cabinet.

"Cynthia MacKenzie! Are you planning to bid on some lucky bachelor?"

"Yes. Under duress _._ Long story. _" A lot of duress_. "You should come if you're not busy."

"I was planning to check it out for the sake of Wallace, but now I'm not so sure. Just got back from a little run in with my old friend, Madison Sinclair."

A rush of pure hatred flows over Mac, making her jaw clench. "I hate Madison."

"Who doesn't?"

"No, I don't mean mild disdain. I mean _'full-on-every-fiber-of-my-being'_  hate."

_But Veronica wouldn't know about the bad blood between us._

Other than quick phone conversations and emails, Mac and Veronica haven't had much opportunity to talk the past couple years. They'd often arranged to hang out, but between Mac's job and Veronica's caseload, they'd always ended up cancelling.

Moving to a large cage, she checks on her boys. Mac has never been a conventional girl, so it's no surprise she has unconventional pets. Pixel, as usual, stands on his back feet grasping the wire bars and wiggling his whiskers at her. A medium-sized Dumbo rat with a white belly, pale French gray back, and giant round ears, he's the attention whore of the two. His brother, Widget, of a darker gray, is nowhere in sight, which means he's probably napping in his hammock.

"Tell me about it," Veronica says, in a soft voice.

Mac lets out a deep breath. "Well you may remember our little switched at birth situation." She lifts Pixel from the cage, bringing him to her chest, where he immediately crawls up to nestle in his favorite place between her neck and shoulder, tickling her skin with his whiskers.

"Rings a bell."

"Well it all came out a couple years ago, and I had the opportunity to bond with my biological mom. We started having regular Sunday mother/daughter dates." She sighs. "Veronica, she just got me. We were so close."

"That's wonderful, but I sense a  _'but'_  coming."

"Yeah. But...about a year and a half ago, she had a stroke." Mac's belly knots in in pain at the memory. She can still see Ellen Sinclair, so small and fragile in her hospital bed.

"Oh my God, Mac. I am so sorry."

"She spent the last two weeks of her life in the hospital, and Madison had me barred from seeing her."

"And you had no legal rights?"

"Exactly. Bio-dad was in Dubai on business and didn't understand the seriousness of the situation. He didn't even come back, which left Madison in charge. She was so jealous of me - of our relationship - that she wouldn't let me see my mother. I begged her, Veronica. I pleaded."

Even now, Mac's eyes flood with tears remembering that feeling of helplessness and how heartless Madison had been. "Luckily, Lauren snuck me in the day before she died. I was able to see her that one last time. But even then, Madison showed up and pitched a fit."

"That bitch!" Veronica says.

"Yeah." Mac angrily swipes away the tears, remembering Madison's rant:  _My mother is dying. I'm done sharing._  "So what happened when you ran into her?"

"It was the oddest thing ever. She chased me down and actually tried to apologize."

"Okay…?"

"So I tried to be an adult. I accepted her apology and tried to escape, but she had to go and bring up Logan."

Mac gives a loud exaggerated gasp. "She said the forbidden L word?"

"Ha. Ha." Veronica says dryly. "She couldn't let it be. She invited me to the bachelor auction and 'kindly' tried to warn me that the competition would be stiff for Logan."

"I suppose that's when you handed her her ass?"

"Give me a little more credit than that. I didn't hand her her ass until she blamed me for Meg's death."

"Ouch."

"Mac, I saw red. I kind of lost it. Got loud. Blamed her for my rape and my break up with Logan. Told her how much I hated her."

"Wish I could've been there. How'd she respond?" Mac checks the pot on the stove, but it's not yet boiling.

"Well she gave up on her idea of trying to be nice. She came right back at me. Said that I was a horrible girlfriend who never deserved Logan, and that bidding on him at the auction was the only way I'd ever get him to come near me again. Then she publicly announced she'd be bidding on him, just to spite me since I could never afford to outbid her."

"Big surprise."

"Thing is? I don't think she even wants to go out with Logan. Seemed she regretted it as soon as she said it. I even felt like her apology was sincere. At least at first."

"It may have been sincere. She's been doing this 'making amends' thing for a few months now. I haven't seen her, but I've talked to other people."

"I wonder why?"

"I've heard rumors. A few weeks after the death of her - our - mom, Madison got in a car accident. Remember Jessica Fuller? School board president?"

"Yeah, Sabrina Fuller's mom. She had a pervy husband. And another kid. Edwin. Or Edmund or something. Really creepy. I babysat him once."

"Right. That's her. Anyway, Madison ran a red light and t-boned her car. She was dead before the ambulance came."

Veronica gasps. "That's horrible!"

"That's just the beginning. People say that Madison was trashed at the time of the accident, but nobody will ever know for sure. She wandered away from the crash-site on foot and disappeared until the next day when she showed up claiming to have a head injury. She ended up getting away with killing that poor woman."

The water is now boiling, so Mac adds a single portion of dried rigatoni.

"You think she was faking it?"

"Definitely. I guess the guilt got to be too much, though. They say she hit rock bottom. Started doing a lot of drugs and hanging out in dive bars on the seedy side of town. Trading sex for drugs."

_Well that explains a few things. Like why she reacted so strongly to the comment I made about being on her knees._

"Probably. Anyway, maybe a year ago, she was suddenly back on the scene. Throwing herself into charity work and apologizing to anybody that'll listen." While the pasta boils, she moves to the front door, retrieving a handful of envelopes from the mail slot.

"And she never apologized to you?"

"She may have wanted to, but I take off every time I see her coming. I don't want her apology. It's much too late for that."

"I can't blame you."

Mac sighs, stroking Pixel's back. "Listen to me. When did I start spreading rumors?"

"No judgment here, Gossip Girl. I sunk to new lows and argued over a boy today. We should have our own show on the CW with all this drama."

Mac chuckles. "So how are you going to deal with her and the Logan thing?"

"I don't have to deal with her."

"It doesn't bother you? She's only doing it to hurt you." Mac idly flips through the mail...credit card offer...electric bill...a Neptune California postcard. She flips it over, but all it says is ' _You should begin searching for a new job immediately_ ' in plain block letters. No return address.

_That's odd._

"She's only hurting herself," Veronica continues. "She publically committed to bid fifteen thousand on a guy she clearly doesn't want to go on a date with. Plus, I may have lifted up my shirt an inch or two to scratch at my side."

"Okay…? You flashed Madison?"

_Why would anybody tell me to search for a new job?_

She's about to mention the postcard, but Veronica's next words makes her forget all about it.

"And Logan's signature may have been stamped on my hipbone. Probably the most immature thing I've done in my life."

"WHAT?! How exactly did Logan's signature end up on your hipbone?"

"Um...he kind of stamped it there. And a few other places. You know how he likes to fiddle with things."

"Veronica Mars! You've been back one day! How did this happen?"

"Well, nobody thought to mention to me that my ex-boyfriend was the new mayor. I walked into his office and was kind of blindsided."

"Ahhh...Beast. Belly. Now it all makes sense. And, for the record, you're the one who forbid us all from speaking the 'L' word."

"That was different!" Veronica protests, and then lowers her voice. "I imagined him in a bad place. Drinking a lot. And I didn't want to know, because I didn't want to feel responsible, and I didn't want to feel obligated to come back and try to fix him. I needed to live my own life."

"I understand."

"And I didn't want to know if he was married...because..."

"Because it would break your heart?" Mac guessed.

Veronica made a noise that was probably supposed to sound dismissive, but Mac knew better.

"So you mean to tell me you and Logan said hello and five minutes later you were humping like bunnies on his desk?"

"Switch the order."

"Huh?"

"We humped like bunnies and  _then_ we said hello."

Mac laughs. "Of  _course_  you did. So one day back and you two are already back together?"

Back in the kitchen, she stirs the pasta in the pot and tests for doneness.  _A little longer._

"NO! We're not back together. We're just...complicated."

"Think about it, Veronica. Six years apart and you fall right back into each other at your first meeting? Maybe it's time to face it, Veronica. He's the one."

"Next subject."

"Fine. Next subject? You're going to allow Madison to go on a date with Logan?"

"I have no choice. I can't take fifteen thousand away from charity."

"I'm sure Logan would reimburse you if you outbid her."

"I won't give her the satisfaction, and it would be cruel to give him any false hope. I have no room in my life for a relationship right now."

"You've been saying that for months, Veronica. You can't close off your heart forever."

"And when was your last date, Miss MacKenzie? Huh?"

"Sometimes I don't like you very much," Mac says with a laugh.

They talk for a few more minutes, finalizing plans to meet up tomorrow at the bachelor's auction, before getting off the phone.

* * *

**Madison Sinclair's Residence:**

Sometimes Madison still has to pinch herself to believe this is real. He lies next to her in bed, looking at her with those beautiful eyes and she can almost believe she's the person he thinks she is. More than anything, she wants to be worthy of the trust and faith he gives her so readily.

It hasn't always like this between them. To say she'd resented his interference in the beginning is putting it mildly.

She'd almost gotten a restraining order on him the first few times he'd dragged her out of a dive bar kicking and screaming. So what if she had a fucking death wish? What was it to him anyway? How dare he presume he could fix her?

* * *

_The first time, she's afraid. Scratches and claws at him. He dumps her unceremoniously in her own back seat, and digs through her purse for her license and her phone. Pocketing her stash. She screams and insults him the entire ride. Threatens to press charges._

_"For what? Interrupting your little drug buy?" he asks. "That shit is poison. Three people have died – one of them a friend of mine."_

" _So? That's not my problem."_

" _So, I'm not going to let that happen to anybody else. Even a bitch like you."_

_He doesn't try to come inside her house, instead calling a cab and waiting for it at the end of her driveway. He takes her keys with him, but she finds them between her front door and the screen the next morning._

_The second time is a repeat. Less scratching. More verbal abuse._

_The third time she's on her knees by the dumpster about to blow some guy – Artie, or something that begins with an 'A'. She's done it before, but he's nothing to her. It's not like she would date him or anything, but there's a tenderness to the way he holds her head and tenderness is something that's been missing in her life. She takes it where she can get it. As she's reaching for his zipper, she's finds herself being hauled away._

_She's too high to catch what he says to Artie, but she's being dragged to her car yet again. She slaps him in the face when he releases her arm, and he clenches his jaw and pushes her in the backseat. This time, he comes inside her house, searches out her stash in the medicine cabinet, and flushes it while she hits and shoves at him._

_The fourth and fifth times, she submits silently and sullenly while he searches her purse and her medicine cabinet. She thinks the local bartenders are spying for him._

_The sixth and seventh times she's on harder stuff, and barely remembers making it home, but while she's out of it, he discovers her most secret hiding places – inside the cardboard tubes of the backup toilet paper in the linen closet, and the bottom of the cereal box under the wax bag. Flushes it all._

_The eighth time, she's back to screaming insults. She doesn't know how he managed to arrange it, but suddenly nobody will sell to her anymore. Not for cash. Not for sex. Not for threats._

_The ninth time, she leans over the console and reaches for his zipper. He's only a man, after all, and men have needs. He pushes her away. Completely uninterested._

_The tenth time, she strips naked while he's searching her home for drugs. Lies on the bed and calls out for him._

_"This is what you want, right? You fucking pervert! Take a good look because you can never touch this."_

_He tosses a nearby blanket over her and goes back to his search._

_Infuriated, she gets back up, presses her body against him. Tries to force him to touch her. Reaches between his legs and finds his dick completely limp._

_She runs to the bathroom and locks herself in, crying in humiliation until long after he's left, taking the last of her hidden stash of Oxycontin with him._

_She begins talking the eleventh time he drags her away from a bar. "Why are you doing this to me? You can't possibly understand what I'm going through."_

_"Try me."_

_"I caused somebody's death."_

_"I've been there."_

_She allows the silence to linger for a minute. "You ever see somebody trying to speak with a shard of metal through their throat?"_

_"Can't say that I have."_

_"Well, that's what I see when I close my eyes. Mrs. Fuller. She was trying to say something, but she could only make these disgusting bloody bubbles. And her eyes..." Madison shudders. "They were pleading with me, and I was so wasted and had no idea what to do. Then it was as if somebody hit the power switch. She just turned...off. Permanently."_

" _She died in front of you."_

" _Yeah. And it only stops hurting when I'm high."_

_After the usual sweep of her purse, her medicine cabinet, her old hiding spots, and her new ones, he sits down on the bed next to her. Strokes her hair while she confesses how she had run through the woods until she couldn't run anymore. Collapsing, and puking and then crawling and puking. Anything to put more distance between herself and the lifeless husk of Mrs. Fuller. How she'd taken shelter from the rain in a crevice between two boulders. How she'd laughed in hysteria over how her outdoorsy bio parents would be proud of her outdoor survival skills, and cried because her mom was dead and never coming back._

_She falls asleep mid-sentence, and he's gone when she wakes in the morning._

_The twelfth time he drags her out of a bar, she's faking. He calls her on it when he brings her home._

_"If you wanted my company, you could have just called me."_

_"Why the hell would I want your company? I hate you."_

_"Okay." He shrugs and goes to leave. Not even a search tonight._

_"Wait." She stops him. "I don't even know how to reach you."_

_"Would you like my phone number?"_

_She stares at her feet as she nods her head. "It just that...you're the only person who cares whether I live or die."_

_He sits next to her on her bed. "I think you might be one of the loneliest people I have ever met."_

_"What do you expect? My mom is...dead...and my sister has replaced me. My dad has always been distant. And my friends...were probably never really my friends at all."_

_"Do you honestly want people to like you?"_

_"Who doesn't?"_

_"Then it's simple. Be likeable."_

_"I AM likeable."_

_He grins at her for the first time since...maybe third grade? "No, you're an entitled pain-in-the-ass. But I think there's a good person buried somewhere under that bitchiness. You can practice being likeable on me, if you want."_

_She calls him much more often than she should. Sometimes he's too busy with his own life, but he usually comes otherwise. Although he occasionally sleeps next to her, he never once tries to make a move on her. She, of course, is hopelessly and madly in love with him. A small part of her realizes she's only replacing one type of drug for another._

_"I feel so lost sometimes. Like things will never get any better."_

_"You need to make up for killing an innocent person and getting away with it."_

_"You think I should turn myself in?"_

_"No, that won't bring her back. You just need to generate some good karma. Make amends to the people you've wronged. Give back to the community or something."_

_She throws herself into charity work with a passion, and he's right, giving to others does ease the black weight on her chest. She feels better. She'll never be sweetness and light like Meg Manning - her inner thoughts still lean more towards bitchy - but she's a new and improved Madison._

_Sometimes she sees him out on dates. It's a small town. It's bound to happen. She smiles bravely, and never lets him see her cry in the bathroom._

_Months go by and one night he shows up at her door with a small gift box._

_"What's this for?"_

_"Open it."_

_Inside, she finds a 3/4 inch brushed silver cuff bracelet. It's simple and elegant. When she holds it to the light, an engraving on the inside catches her eye: "I'm so proud of you."_

_"You're proud of me? For the charity work?"_

_"Of course, I'm proud of you for that, but this is because you've made it six months without getting fucked up."_

_"I have?" The bracelet is warmer against her skin than she expected. She wants to kiss him for it, but is too afraid of rejection._

_"Yeah. So...I was wondering..." He rubs the back of his head nervously. "Would you like to go on a date some time?"_

* * *

Six months later, and she's happier than she's ever been in her life. He's loving and attentive. Looks at her as if she's precious. And the sex is amazing - Dick had been a selfish lover and Don was all about technique. But  _he_  always provides what she needs - tender when she's feeling fragile, and rough when she wants it that way.

Sure, sometimes she worries he's caught up in something sketchy when she wakes up in the middle of the night to find him gone, but he's always back by the morning, and she completely trusts him.

He is surprisingly perfect for her, and that's why this is going to be so hard.

"I have to tell you something…" she begins. "...and you're not going to like it."

"What happened?"

"I had a backslide today."

He's instantly alert. "You got high?"

"No. Nothing like that. I just had a little altercation."

"You want to talk about it?"

"I ran into Veronica Mars outside of Java the Hut."

He sighs. "How bad was it?"

"I had the best of intentions. I only wanted to apologize for the past and make amends. But Caitlin kept causing trouble."

She doesn't dare to tell him about Veronica's rape or of Dick's intentions to rape her.

"I hate that bitch, Caitlin," he says. "Things got out of hand?"

"You could say that. You might even say ugly."

"I'm not your keeper, Madi. Of course, you're going to have a bad day now and then. I'd prefer you not to have them with Veronica Mars, because she'll fuck up your life, but you don't have to report back to me."

"I know, but there's more." Madison takes a deep breath. "She pissed me off really bad, and I don't know what came over me, but I ended up publicly committing to bid fifteen thousand dollars for Logan Echolls in the bachelor auction."

"Oh hell!" He's up off the bed in a flash, starting to pace. "What were you thinking?"

"I  _wasn't_  thinking. I was in pure reactionary mode, and I wanted to hurt her. Logan has always been her weakness."

"He was  _your_ weakness once. You sure that has nothing to do with it?"

Madison jumps out of bed and steps in front of him, grabbing him by the arms. " _You_  are my only weakness. I swear. I wanted to back out of it, but then Mrs. Caldwell showed up, and stupid Caitlin told her what I said."

"And now you can't back out without losing your standing."

"Exactly. Please don't be mad at me."

He exhales and runs a hand over his face. "I'm not mad at you. Just worried."

"Maybe we could just go public. As a couple." Madison mentions, trying not to look too hopeful. "Then everyone will know that I'm not after Logan."

He rubs the back of his neck and looks at her guiltily.

Madison looks away quickly. "Oh...you don't want to?"

"You know why this is a really bad time for that."

She sighs. It hurts, but she has nobody to blame but herself. "I understand."

He pulls her into his arms. "I'm only stalling. No matter what happens, I pick you. I love you."

Her stomach bottoms out. "You love me?"

He flashes a crooked grin. "Yeah. You haven't figured that out by now?"

"I love you too!" She says and peppers his face with kisses. Nobody has ever made her this happy in her life.

He guides her back to bed, covering her body with his own, and whispering that he loves her while kissing her all over.

She believes him. She really does, but she can't help the sick feeling in her gut that this charity date with Logan is going to ruin everything.

* * *

**Mars Residence**

Several of Veronica's voicemails are from her father warning her to call him before going to see the mayor. She deletes Joe's messages without listening. There's a message from Rick saying he'd found the laminating machine and it still works. He'll drop off a shiny new Hearst badge in the morning. She's listening to Mac's first message when the doorbell rings.

A teenage boy stands on the doorstep. Barely old enough to drive, dark curly hair and thick glasses.

"You Veronica Mars?"

"Yes…?" she answers warily.

He shoves a gift bag at her. Glossy black with the 'Sharper Image' logo in white. "Mayor wanted me to give this to you."

"Tell the mayor that I can't accept any gifts from him."

"He told you would say that, and to leave it on the doorstep if you did."

"Of  _course_  he did." She sighs, accepting the bag. "How do you know the mayor?"

"Neighbor." The boy wiggles his fingers in a wave and takes off.

Veronica carries the bag into the kitchen, setting it on the counter. She'll send the package back to him tomorrow.

She pours a glass of water and searches the cabinets for a sweet snack.

She thinks she can feel the gift watching her.

_Sharper Image. So it's some kind of gadget._

_Voice recording pen?_

_Personal massager?_

_Power wine-bottle opener?_

_Nose hair trimmer?_

Finally, she sighs and begins yanking layers of tissue paper from the bag.

At first glance, she thinks it's an alarm clock. After pulling the box out of the bag, she finds that it's a 'Sound Soother White Noise Machine'.

A yellow post-it note stuck to the glossy box, says simply, ' _Sleep, Veronica_ ' in Logan's large handwriting.

She shakes her head and can't help but smile.

Under the box, she finds a folded document. Another sticky note says: ' _Your father emailed me this PDF_ '.

Her P.I. license extension. Logan's loopy signature at the bottom.

_Good boy._

After unboxing it, she takes the contraption to her bedroom, placing it on her nightstand and plugging it in. According to the box, the machine has twenty relaxing sounds.

_What's the difference between 'Surf', 'Oceanside' and 'Tide'?_

She tests out all three and finds that 'Surf' reminds her most of the machine Logan used at the Neptune Grand.

_Logan._

She's not sure how to process what she'd learned from Caitlin and Madison earlier. She's definitely annoyed that he'd never mentioned screwing around with Madison before her. She hates being ambushed like that.

She remembers a pair of brown-eyed teenage brothers she'd interviewed several years ago after the death of their father, both bearing the burns and scars of the chronically abused. Convinced of their innocence, and perhaps subconsciously wanting to better understand her ex-boyfriend, she'd struck up a rapport with the boys.

"Volunteer nothing," Tommy, the younger brother had told her. "No matter what choice you make, no matter what the circumstances are, you're always in the wrong."

"There's no such thing as a statute of limitations." the older brother, Adam, added. "Doesn't matter when you did it, you'll still be punished. Never hand over ammunition that can be used against you later."

She'd cancelled plans with her boyfriend that night, staying home instead with a bottle of wine and old photo albums. Finally grasping the driving force behind Logan's annoying habit of constantly withholding information.

Her cell is in her hand before she realizes, and she's dialing by memory.

He answers on the third ring. "Hello?"

"You haven't changed your number in all of these years?"

"You haven't deleted my number in all of these years?"

"I did, but somehow I still remembered it."

"You got my gift?"

"Yeah, it came a few minutes ago."

"Thought it might help. You always said you slept best at my place because of my white noise machine."

_I lied, you big dummy. It was you. Your warmth. The sound of your breathing._

_My human shield against things that go bump in the night._

Then again, maybe he's more devious than she's giving him credit for, forcing her to remember the good times.

"Thank you, Logan. It was very thoughtful."

"You're welcome," his voice is soft. "Figured you couldn't dream about me if you weren't sleeping."

She chuckles, and closes her eyes. Listens to the silence for a minute - all of the things he's not saying, but she knows he's thinking.

"Well...I'm going to hang up now. Thanks again."

"Goodnight, Veronica."

"Night, Lo."

She hangs up and powers on the machine to 'Surf' mode. Lies back on the plump pillow and closes her eyes.

_I still love you, too._

_Jackass._


	6. Episode 2/Part 2 Neptune's Pastime

 

 

**Mars Residence**

 

As is her habit, Veronica lingers between the crisp cotton sheets, mentally planning her day – or at least attempting to. Details from last night's dream keep distracting her – large hands slipping across her skin…lips, teeth, tongue…a pair of brown eyes penetrating her consciousness.

_Logan, get out of my head._

Showering doesn't help. Despite the scrubbing, his name isn't coming off her skin. She traces one of the 'L's with her index finger and shivers.

_I am so fucked!_

Of course, she'd known she would run into him eventually – Neptune wasn't that big – but her imagined scenarios had consisted more of polite ' _hello'_ s and quick escapes than stripping naked and having him inside her within an hour.

_Who actually does that?_

She can acknowledge now the difference between Logan and the guys she's dated since leaving Neptune. He makes her  _feel_. Intensely.

He oozes into the cracks and crevices in her protective walls, weakening the structural integrity.  _Weakening me._

She's learned over the years to  _'turn off'_. Keeping the intensity level low, to avoid being emotionally devastated when her boyfriends inevitably got around to disappointing her.

Dr. Unser had accused her of gravitating towards weak, easily controlled men. Question was, could she never entirely love them because they were weak, or did she gravitate to them because she could never love them?

* * *

A shiny chrome food-service truck is parked in her father's driveway smelling like Rolling Bacon Thunder, when Veronica emerges from the bathroom, dressed and ready for the day. The blue and white sign reads ' _Pete's Concessions_ '.

The proprietor is a living personification of the plastic troll dolls she and Lilly collected as children, with his wizened face, shock of white hair and twinkling eyes. "Breakfast, Ms. Mars. Courtesy of the mayor," he says in a wheezy voice.

Her initial thrill of excitement subsides as Veronica internally debates whether she should refuse the food.

_Accepting will send Logan the wrong message_ _. Right?_

Two cups, a paper bag, and several Styrofoam containers already wait on the counter, and when the man slides thick Belgian Waffles into the remaining two containers, Veronica's shaky resolve shatters.

"Fine…" Deep, heavy sigh, as if she's doing him a huge favor. "This time."

She carries both cups of coffee inside, and makes a second trip for the remaining items.

An ecru envelope rests on the top box. She extracts the heavy-weight notecard - expensive and engraved with Logan's name.

* * *

**V,**

**Eat.**

**\- L**

A postscript on the back catches her eye as she slides the card into the envelope.

**P.S. It's not as if I'm going to win you back with flowers.**

* * *

She snorts and rolls her eyes.

_Sleep. Eat. What'll be next? Bathe? Floss?_

She raps her knuckles on her father's bedroom door. "Dad? You up?"

The bathroom door opens behind her, and she catches a whiff of steam and Irish Spring soap - a scent she'll always associate with home.

"What's up?" her father asks, fresh from the shower, and buttoning the cuff on his indigo and white checked shirt with his other hand.

"Breakfast is on the table when you're ready."

"I'll be right out."

Keith enters as she's setting out plates, forks and napkins, cocking his head in confusion. "Where'd this come from? I didn't hear you go out."

"Breakfast came to me." Veronica takes one of the Belgian waffles, handing her dad the second box along with his cup of black coffee, then begins opening other containers revealing the treasures inside.

"Somebody loves you," Keith says, helping himself to some sausage links.

"What's love got to do, got to do with it?" Veronica sings. A weak attempt at evasion.

"Did Logan send this?"

"Logan, who?" Wide guileless eyes paint her as the picture of innocence as she scoops a portion of crunchy golden hash browns onto her plate.

Keith raises a brow and stares at her until she feels her cheeks warming.

"Oh... _thaaaat_  Logan." She opens a salt packet, sprinkling the contents over her potatoes. "Funny, the guy operating the truck mentioned something about the mayor. You wouldn't know anything about the  _mayor_ , would you?" Her eyes narrow in accusation.

She's being unfair. He'd tried warning her yesterday. It's not his fault she'd turned off her phone to avoid any more calls from Joe.

_But what's a little undeserved grumbling among family, right?_

"Sure. Actually, I've known the mayor since he was a skinny twelve year-old twerp with a crush on my daughter."

"A skinny twelve year-old twerp with a crush on  _Lilly_ ," she corrects, snagging three sausage links. "It took him a while to refine his tastes."

Keith shakes his head in the negative and portions out a scoop of hash browns. "Uh-uh. A father knows these things. He looked at you the way a dog looks at his master."

_Until the end, when he looked at me like a whipped dog looks at the foot that kicks him._

"I had to have a little talk with him," Keith continues. "Maybe a mention of what kind of harm might befall anybody brave enough to put their hands on my daughter."

Veronica's jaw drops. "You scared away my potential first boyfriend?"

"I did."

"Do you know what you've done?"

He waits her out, eyes crinkled in amusement.

"You saved me...what?...a good four years of drama in my formative years. Up here, old man." She lifts her right hand, high fiving her father.

"Only delayed it, sadly. And in hindsight, he could have been worse."

"You mean like ' _pregnant-girlfriend-in-a-coma_ ', worse?"

"That's one scenario."

"I forgot how much I love fresh waffles." She upends a white paper bag onto the table, digging through its contents for two pats of butter. "Never got around to buying a machine for the apartment."

The butter begins melting the moment it touches her waffles, puddling in the depressions.

"You're never out of bed early enough to cook, anyway."

"True dat. Strawberry topping or blueberry?" She cracks the lid on the strawberry topping, inhaling the sweet aroma, before drizzling half over her waffle.

"You know me. I'm a purist," Keith answers reaching for the small maple syrup container. "You look better this morning. Finally get a good night's sleep?"

"Actually...I think I did."

The new white-noise machine must have worked miracles, because - for the first time in ages - she feels wide awake and refreshed.

"So you plan on telling me about your meeting with Logan?"

"Nope. Look, bacon!" She opens the remaining container and snags a handful.

Keith's forehead wrinkles in concern. "That bad?"

_Several of the best orgasms I've had in years? Nope, not too shabby._

"No, just…Logan." She speaks his name as if it's answer enough. As she always has.

Keith nods in understanding. As  _he_  always has. In fact, despite his disapproval, he's never asked for an explanation for what she sees in Logan.

"So should I be expecting you two to start dating again?"

"Not if I can help it." And she means it. Literally. Because she's not sure she  _can_  help it.

_But I'm going to try._

Keith's lips curl up in a smirk, but he keeps his thoughts quiet.

"What?" Veronica says. "Where's the lecture about how troubled Logan is? Too reckless? No ambition? You're letting me down here, Dad."

"He's County Supervisor, honey. I think he got a handle on the ambition thing."

"He's smart mouthed and disrespectful."

"That's right. We frown on that kind of sarcasm in the Mars family. Who are you trying to convince, Veronica? Me or yourself?"

Her lower lip pokes out. "Myself."

"Listen, I can't be too down on Logan."

Veronica scoffs. "Since when?"

"Since we had a chat a while back. Let's just say I gave him some unasked-for advice I never expected him to follow. Who knew Logan Echolls was capable of self-sacrifice?"

_I did. Even at his worst._

"Advice about what? Me?"

"That's between Logan and me. But no. Or only tangentially."

"Not even a little hint?"

Keith flashes his  _'not-a-chance'_  expression. He rises from the table, grabs a small box with an Office Max logo from the kitchen counter and hands it to her before sitting again.

"What's this?"

"I picked you up some new business cards, to welcome you back to the agency."

"1000 of them?" She raises an eyebrow. "Pretty optimistic aren't you?"

"Let's call it hopeful," Keith says, reaching for some more bacon. "So what are your plans for today?"

"Hmm…" she swallows her mouthful of strawberry covered waffle. "Too much! The movers are coming around noon with the stuff from my apartment. I need to start making progress on the Terrance Cook case, and then there's the Neptunalia tonight. I told Wallace I'd show up for the Bachelor Auction to cheer him on."

"And to intimidate any bidders you don't approve of?"

"Naturally."

Keith grins indulgently. "I'll handle the movers for you. Just leave your storage unit key on the counter."

Veronica points her fork at him. "I knew there was a reason I kept you around."

"And I thought it was for the stimulating conversation. So tell me more about the Cook case."

Veronica summarizes the details of the case as told by Jackie.

"So we have four possibilities," Keith begins, counting each point out on his fingers. "One, the players simply had a bad game, and there was no fix at all. Two, somebody fixed the game for financial gain. Three, somebody's setting Terrence up – to lose his job, or even for criminal charges. And four?" He trails off gesturing for Veronica to take over.

"Four, he's actually guilty of game-fixing, and is too ashamed to come clean to Jackie. A distinct possibility since that's what kept him out of the Hall of Fame."

"That's my girl." He sips his coffee. "I really hope Cook is innocent this time."

"Me too. If only for the fact that he was your hero for so long. "

"It's more than that," Keith says. "Terrance turned that team around. The Rough Riders haven't had a winning streak like that for decades."

"They're that good?"

"They're good for the city. Games are selling out and the kids idolize them. Should I tag along when you interview Cook?"

She pauses in her chewing. "Actually, that would be perfect. I could use your sports expertise."

She pushes back her chair at the sound of the doorbell. "And that should be Rick Smith with my new Hearst badge."

* * *

**Cook Residence**

 

An elegant six foot tall woman in skin-toned stilettos answers the door at the Cook residence. Her pensive, caramel-colored eyes are in striking contrast to her dark skin and close cropped hair.

_Hello, supermodel. What runway did you step off of?_

"You must be Keith…and?"

"Veronica Mars." She catches a whiff of jasmine as they shake hands.

"Pleased to meet you." The woman says with a hint of accent. "I'm Dana Grenier, Terrence's girlfriend. Come in."

_French. And not much older than Jackie._

Dana leads them to a formal living room, where soft jazz music issues through inset ceiling speakers. Terrence Cook sets down his newspaper and rises to greet them.

He shakes with both hands, like a politician.

_I wonder if Logan is shaking hands like that now._

She stifles a laugh at the image.

_Of course he is. If only for the theatricality of it._

"Please sit," Terrance gestures at a white modern sofa opposite him. His girlfriend excuses herself and exits the room.

While Keith makes small talk, Veronica squirms in her seat.  _Why must rich people furniture always be so uncomfortable?_

Dana enters with a coffee service, setting the silver tray on the large steel and glass coffee table before preparing a cup for each of them. She leaves again, returning a moment later with small platter of finger desserts. "Help yourself, I had them sent over from Biondi's Bakery this morning."

_So how long must I wait, for propriety's sake, before attacking that chocolate?_

"Thank you for taking my case, Keith." Terrance says. "I hesitated when Jackie first made the suggestion, but I'm relieved she hired you anyway. I've seen the kind of magic you've worked in the past."

_Am I invisible here?_

Veronica takes a tentative sip of her coffee. Strong. Also French. Or at least she thinks it's a French Roast.

"This is my daughter Veronica's case," Keith points to her, and she finger waves. "I'm only here because you and I have an established relationship."

Cook frowns but recovers, affecting a genial expression. "Right. Thank you for coming, Veronica."

"No problemo. Do you mind if I record our conversation?" She brings up the recording app on her phone, thumb hovering over the red button.

Terrance's rubs at the back of his neck. "Uh...no. I mean, no I don't mind. Go ahead. I have nothing to hide."

Veronica presses record.

"Tell us about the July 26th game against Balboa U," Keith begins, according to plan. On the ride over, they'd agreed Keith would take point on all sports-related questioning.

Terrance describes what sounds like a clusterfuck of bad throws, bad calls, and a collective inability to catch a ball. Keith asks a series of questions designed to trip the man up, but his answers remain, for the most part, consistent. Not so much as to seem rehearsed, however.

Veronica surreptitiously reaches for a miniature chocolate cup stuffed with cream and topped with a maraschino cherry. She takes a bite, and her eyes roll back in her head. Luckily, only her father notices, his eyes crinkling with suppressed amusement.

_As long as he keeps talking, I can sneak a few more of these._

_Or I can always stop at Biondi's to buy my own._

She folds her hands in her lap as a measure of self-control.

Keith levels Terrance with his probing gaze. "Do you believe that the game was actually fixed?"

Terrance bites the inside of his cheek and pauses to consider. "At the time? The idea never crossed my mind. I thought it was a streak of bad luck and an idiot umpire. Now? I don't know what to think."

"Is the sheriff's department involved?" Keith asks.

"Yeah. Van Lowe made it clear he's going to nail me for this, but no criminal charges been filed yet. Look, I know I screwed up in the past, but I didn't fix this game. I swear!"

Keith's voice is gentle. "You had a pretty serious gambling problem."

"I did. I broke Rule 21 - ' _Any player, umpire, or club or league official or employee, who shall bet any sum whatsoever on any baseball game in connection with which the bettor has a duty to perform shall be declared permanently ineligible_." Terrance tugs at the collar on his dove gray button-down shirt as if it's choking him. "It's posted prominently in every major-league dugout. But I've been attending a twelve-step program for the last three years. I don't even buy scratch-off tickets anymore."

"So you've severed your relationship with Leonard Lobo?" Keith asks.

"Not completely." Terrence sighs and rolls his shoulders. "We have an agreement. Once a week, I'll glad-hand for him in the lobby, restaurant and bar, but I won't step foot on the casino floor."

Veronica leans forward, indicating her intention to take control of the interview. "So you have access to those who take sports bets."

"I suppose I do."

"Anybody from your old betting days?"

"Sports book gambling is only legal in Vegas."

"Did you go to Vegas to bet against the Sharks?"

"Well...no."

"So you're acquainted with bookies closer to home."

He stares at his lap. "I rotated between three local bookies back in the days. Including Lobo."

"I'll need those names," Veronica says.

"But I wasn't the one who bet on the game."

Veronica flashed him a withering glare. "I'm going to need your full cooperation if you want me to clear your name, Mr. Cook."

Cook sighs and rattles off three names: Earnest MacDonald, Samuel Barker, and Orlando Rogers. "I'll have to get back to you with their contact information."

_And I'll have to confirm with Weevil._

"Thank you," Veronica says. "Are any of these three men connected to Mr. Lobo or the casino?"

"I've seen Barker and Rogers around the casino." Terrance twists at his wristwatch.

"Describe your relationship with them."

"What do you mean?"

Veronica pushes. "Is it friendly? Hostile? Strained?"

"Friendly enough. They don't miss me as a customer, if that's what you're asking."

"What were the odds for the game in question?" She asks.

"You'll have to talk to Leonard Lobo about that."

She stares at him skeptically until Cook speaks again. "I'm an addict, Ms. Mars. I can't afford to concern myself with odds or gambling."

_Okay, I'll buy that._

"Who do you suspect of setting you up, Mr. Cook?" Veronica asks.

Terrance inhales deeply. Looks at Dana. The ceiling. His hands.

Veronica takes advantage of his distraction to snag another chocolate cherry cup.

_Absolutely divine._

"I have no idea," he answers finally, with the bewildered look of an older person trying to program a DVR.

"Who would want to hurt you?" she presses.

"Nobody. That I can think of."

Dana looks as if she may have something to contribute, but she remains silent.

"Ms. Grenier? Do you have any enemies?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

Footsteps announce the arrival of Jackie. She sweeps into the living room, beautiful as ever in a knee length sleeveless dress in black with white polka dots. A red belt cinches her waist. "I'm so glad you're here, Veronica," she says, taking a seat next to her father, who puts an arm around her affectionately.

Veronica acknowledges her with a smile, and returns to questioning Terrance. "How long have you been working at Hearst?"

"I started right before the 2012 season. So a little over a year."

"Did they recruit you?"

"No, I went to them. Seemed like my only chance to work in baseball again after the scandal."

"And who coached the team before you?"

"A guy named Herb Chapman. They offered him an early retirement."

"Bet he loved that." Veronica notes the man's name. "How did he react?"

Cook warms his hands on his coffee mug. "We worked together for three weeks while I transitioned in. He was cold, but professional. I can't imagine him doing this."

"How about the players? Have you had altercations with any of them?"

"No, I have a strong rapport with team." He grins self-consciously. "I lead with a carrot. Not a stick."

"And the other coaches?"

"Nothing." Terrence shakes his head. "No, they're great guys.

"No disagreements?"

"Not that I can think of."

Keith speaks up. "How about ex-girlfriends? Any ugly breakups?"

Terrance hesitates, glancing at Dana, who nods.

"Dana was dating a bit of a hothead when I met her. He blamed me for their breakup, and made some threats."

"Thing is," Dana breaks in, "I know Kelvin was angry enough, but I'm not sure he's  _smart_  enough to set up something this elaborate."

_Kelvin? I've only heard of one Kelvin before._

"Kelvin Moore?" Veronica raises an eyebrow, unable to imagine this elegant woman with the bully who'd pantsed Butters in gym class.

"You know him?"

"Classmate. And you're right. Not likely, but worth checking out. How about you?" she asks Cook.

"My last relationship didn't end well, either. A girl named April Dennis."

"What happened?"

"I broke up with her when I was offered the coach position. She was a student at Hearst. I didn't think our relationship would be appropriate."

_And the fact that she was probably younger than your daughter was?_

Veronica jots down her name and contact information. "How'd she take the breakup?"

"She was angry. Accused me of pursuing the job knowing I'd have to break up with her if I got it."

"Isn't that exactly what you did do?"

Terrance winces at Veronica's tone. "Well…yeah. Kind of."

"Did she make any threats?"

"Only the usual stuff, like how I was going to regret losing her."

_The usual? You have a habit of breaking hearts?_

"Were you faithful to Ms. Dennis?"

Cook self-consciously buttons and unbuttons the cuff on his right shirt sleeve. "Not always." He avoids the eyes of his girlfriend and daughter.

"Was Ms. Dennis aware that you had been unfaithful?"

"She may have found out. She was acquainted with the other woman."

"I'll need a name."

"I'm sorry. I can't." He finally glances up. "It wasn't serious, and the other woman was married."

Veronica opens her mouth to insist, but her father gives her a tiny head shake.

He steps in, changing the subject. "There was another woman you were engaged to before the bus crash."

"Right, Deborah Daily. She couldn't deal with Leslie Dumas' obsession with me and gave me the ring back. Deborah's not behind this. She's moved on."

"Have you had any run-ins with either of these women since your breakups?"

"Yes. I see Deborah around. She's friendly. April might need a bit more time to get over it."

"Do you believe either of them capable of a plot this intricate?"

"Um…yeah, I suppose anybody might be capable, given enough motivation."

Veronica and Keith rise and say their goodbyes.

"So what's next?" Terrance asks.

"I'll need copies of your bank records. You can fax them to me at the office." Terrance's lips press together in a slight grimace, but she doesn't pause to give him time to argue. "I'm heading over to Hearst this afternoon to see what I can learn there."

Jackie walks Veronica out to the car. "So…what do you think?"

"I can't lie, Jackie. It's not going to be easy. I'll have to check up on the old coach, Herbert Chapman, Kelvin Moore, and the ex-girlfriend, April."

Jackie's nose wrinkles in distaste. "Typical bitchy 09er type. Dad brought her to New York once when he visited."

"My best shot will be talking to the team. If your father is being set up…"

"There would have be somebody on the inside," Jackie finishes for her.

"Exactly."

"So…um...Wallace?" Jackie's lashes lower. "Have you mentioned to him that I'm back in town yet?"

"Damn. That's right. I only gave you a day to tell him yourself. Actually, I'll wait until after the Neptunalia. No sense in ruining his weekend. No offense."

"What's does the Neptunalia have to do with it?" Jackie asks, choosing to ignore Veronica's unintended insult.

_Shit! Great job, Veronica. Might as well take out an ad in the paper that Wallace will be auctioned off tonight._

"Nothing special," Veronica shrugged. "I'll give you the weekend, but if you haven't told him you're back by Monday…"

"I will. I promise!" Jackie says. She gives Veronica an impromptu hug, and returns to the house.

_I just hope her first run-in with Wallace is less dramatic than mine with Logan. Because…ewwww…that's my BFF._

In the car, Keith gives her a small smile and pats the top of her head.

"Out with it," Veronica says.

"Out with what?"

"You're holding your tongue about something. Whatever it is, just say it. Did I mess up?"

"I wouldn't say you messed up…" Keith begins. "You asked all the right questions."

"But…?"

"But...you interrogate like a cop. Terrance is a paying client..."

"Got it. More finesse. Less pit bull?"

"I'll make a P.I. out of you yet."

* * *

**Hearst College**

 

After all the time and effort invested in creating a perfect replica of the Hearst ID badge, Veronica is almost disappointed when Weevil's security guard friend Cody barely spares a glance at it. He seems more interested in checking out Veronica's boobs than her credentials.

He steps out of the guardhouse to lean over her car window. "I don't remember seeing you around before..." quick glance at her badge. "...Dottie."

_Do not acknowledge his lack of deodorant. Smile and look ditsy._

"Probably because I'm only recently a blonde. And already having more fun!" Veronica giggles and flips her hair.

Another glance at her breasts, and he waves her through.

She checks the baseball stadium first, and lucks out, finding the team on the field in their scarlet and white practice uniforms. Veronica skirts around sticky patches of spilled soda and clumps of broken peanut shells, taking a seat on the hot aluminum bleachers to watch.

Jackie hadn't exaggerated when she'd said this team was born to play baseball together. Every throw, every play - perfectly on target.

_How many players would need to be in on the fix in order to lose a game against the worst team in the conference?_

Practice ends and the boys scatter towards the locker room. One coach -  _assistant coach,_  she reminds herself - stays behind to gather up equipment.

Veronica strolls out onto the field. "Excuse me."

The man startles and turns around, his features hidden in the shadow from the brim of his baseball cap.

She holds up a hand in greeting, tilting her head. "Hello, my name is—"

"Veronica Mars," he interrupts.

She moves close enough to see his face. "Luke? Luke Haldeman?"

Veronica doesn't remember him being this attractive in high school. He's bigger now - wider in the shoulders - and his hair seems lighter, somehow. At the least, he's styling it better, and his five o'clock shadow adds a sexy factor he didn't possess as a teen.

He's grinning, as if genuinely happy to see her, and she finds that she returns the sentiment. Luke wasn't the brightest bulb in high school, but he'd always been genuinely nice.

He pulls her into a loose hug. "The one and only." His hand still lingering on her arm, he asks, "How the hell have you been? You look great."

_I look like I haven't slept in a month, but thanks for playing._

"Thanks. You're looking pretty good yourself."

"Last I heard, you were a hotshot cop over in San Diego."

"Gave it up. Private Investigation is less...restrictive. How about you? I figured you'd be running your father's company by now."

"Nah. Business is not my thing – to the parents' everlasting disappointment. I actually made it to the Majors. Played a single game before throwing out my shoulder. So here I am."

She winces in sympathy. "Tough break!"

He shrugs. "I get by. At least I still work in baseball." He pauses to look her over, raising a single eyebrow in question. "I don't remember you ever being a baseball fan, so I'm guessing you're here on a case?"

"You've caught me." She smiles and shrugs. "I'm here about Terrance Cook. His daughter Jackie hired me to clear his name."

"That was  _bullshit!"_ Luke's lips flatten, and he momentarily glances away, fingers clenching around the ball in his left hand. "Baseball is Terrence's life. He wouldn't do what he's accused of."

"He's gambled on his own games before."

Luke nods in acknowledgement. "I've heard about that. Believe me, the man I know won't even buy raffle tickets."

He glances at the dugout, where several equipment bags wait to be collected. "Hey. I really want to help you, but I need to finish cleaning up first. Why don't you give me fifteen minutes, and meet me in the clubhouse. I'll try to round up the team before they leave the locker room, too."

* * *

The Hearst Food Court is the land time forgot. Nothing much has changed since Veronica was last here. That day Logan stupidly disregarded her warning, tossing the son of a Russian mobster around like a hacky sack to defend her honor. The day she'd realized she might never truly be over him, and Piznarski simply wasn't going to cut it.

She'd broken up with Piz that night and had avoided the cafeteria for the remaining weeks of the school year, not wanting to run into either of the boys.

Midway through her FBI internship, Gory Sorokin and a handful of friends had caught up with Logan, putting him in the hospital and nearly killing him. Veronica's response had been to cancel her return-trip home. Permanently.

Today, the place is almost deserted – perhaps due to the uncomfortably cold temperature.  _Weevil would've had somebody's ass for turning the A/C so low back in the day._

As if in a trance, she runs her fingers over the smooth laminate surface of one of the round tables.

_My table with Logan._

They hadn't eaten here every day. Sometimes, the table had been occupied. Other times, they'd been in larger groups. But when given their choice of seats, they tended to gravitate here.

Some of her best memories with Logan had taken place at this table. It was here that she'd discovered (or rediscovered) that she didn't merely love Logan, didn't merely lust for his body, but truly and genuinely  _liked_ him - and maybe even admired him a little. Here, for decorum's sake, she was forced to keep her hands and lips off him, and in turn, learned more about who he was as a person. Here, they were able to sit together without judgment from anybody. No 09ers. No PCHers.

She allows herself to ruminate over how things might have turned out if only Logan hadn't slept with Madison. Could they have made it? Or would something else have broken them up?

_How long would he have been satisfied with a girl who couldn't say "I love you"?_

_How long before I managed to get him killed?_

_If not Sorokin, it would have been a Fitzpatrick. Or a PCHer. Or another murderous 09er like Beaver. I had a penchant for making enemies back then._

_Still do, actually._

From what she could tell, Logan had come a long way from the directionless boy he'd been back then. Were Logan's accomplishments possible  _because_  she'd left, or in spite of her absence?

One more caress of her hand over the smooth surface, and she walks away, reluctantly ignoring the aromas of marinara and garlic as she approaches the coffee counter instead.

_Save your appetite for the festival, Veronica. You can eat Italian every other day of the year._

_And much better than the stuff they make here._

* * *

A large conference table dominates the center of the Rough Riders' clubhouse. Maple wooden cubbies line the two longer walls, game uniforms hanging neatly in each one.

Luke smiles in greeting as she arrives - now dressed in jeans and a pale blue button down with skinny white stripes - and she marvels again at how good-looking he's become in the intervening years. He invites her to take a seat at the table, and sits in the high-backed leather chair opposite her. She catches a whiff of fresh cologne. Nice. Sort of lemony. But she can't help compare him unfavorably to the way Logan smells.

"I asked the boys to stop in here when they're finished getting cleaned up."

"Thank you. I appreciate it." She extracts a small notepad and pen from her bag. She prefers to take notes on her phone, as it allows her to synch to both her laptop and the cloud, but she'll be using it as a recording device, so paper it is.

"Is there anything you'd like to ask me while we wait?"

She tilts her head and flashes him a little  _you-asked-for-it_  smile. "Okay, who might benefit by Terrance Cook being fired?"

His brows furrow. "Benefit?"

"Who would be next in line to coach?"

"Oh." He considers the question. "I would. I suppose. I have the most seniority. Or they might hire somebody from the outside." He seems to realize he's a suspect, and puts both hands up in protest. "But I would never do that to the boss. I swear."

 _Tick. Tick. Tick._ The clock mounted above the doorway to the team office is especially loud and distracting. She tries to block the sound from her mind.

"Do you remember Cook's demeanor during the game in question?"

"Yeah, he was as shocked as the rest of us. Pacing the sidelines. In fact, he almost got tossed for arguing with the umpire."

Interesting. She makes a note on her pad.

"So you think it was a legitimate loss? The team just had a bad game?"

"It's hard to say. There's no way we should have lost that game. We had the best record in the conference, and they had the worst. It should have been a sure thing."

"Do you suspect anybody in particular?"

Luke's gaze lifts up to the right as if replaying the game in his head.

While he thinks, Veronica takes a moment to roll her eyes at the cheesy motivational posters mounted on the white painted walls above the cubbies.

* * *

**T E A M W O R K**

**Together we achieve that which no one can achieve alone.**

* * *

**P E R S E R V E R E N C E**

**What the mind can conceive and believe, it can achieve**

* * *

**C H A L L E N G E**

**There is one quality which one must possess to win and that is the clarity of purpose. This is the knowledge of what one wants, and a burning desire to achieve it.**

* * *

This third one disturbs her on some level. Not due to it being profound in any way, but because it spotlights the fact that she has no idea what she wants out of life at this point.

 _'Clarity of purpose'_  she writes on a fresh page of her notepad.

Luke begins to speak, but halts, shaking his head as if in denial.

_Interesting._

He considers a little longer, and then speaks slowly. "The umpire. A guy named Hugo Davis. He was making bad calls. Strikes way outside the strike zone. Called a few outs that were clearly safe."

"You were going to mention somebody else at first."

He wavers. "You know, let me look into a few things before I turn you loose on an innocent party. Do you have a business card or something?"

She fishes one of her brand new cards from her bag.  _Thank you dad for your foresight._

Luke's drop to the card. "I'll give you a call if my suspicions pan out."

"Make it soon, or I'll have to harass you."

"Like a pit bull. I remember the drill." He softens his words with a smile. "We have tapes form the game. You think they could be useful?"

"Absolutely. And would you be able to list for me the players and their positions?"

"Not a problem." Luke rises from the table and disappears through a doorway marked 'Team Office'.

* * *

Team members - dressed now in street clothing - begin to trickle in one or two at a time. Each examines Veronica with interest, but nobody tries to engage with her until a brown-eyed blond boy enters with a friend and drops down into the chair on Veronica's left with an engaging grin.

"When Coach said somebody wanted to ask us questions, he never mentioned you were so pretty."

She tilts her head a little and smirks. "And you only talk to pretty people?"

His grin stretches wider, flashing dimples deeper than the Mariana Trench. "I would have at least hurried for you."

Veronica mentally files him into the Troy Vandergraff category. Fun. Flirty. About as serious as a can of silly string. The boy on his other side - Latino and quite beautiful - appears intense and slightly annoyed by her presence. Before she has an opportunity to puzzle that out, Luke returns.

"Our admin, Jennie, is going to make a copy of the game tape and messenger it to your office." He hands a two page printout to Veronica. The first is a team roster listing names, positions, and contact information for each player. The second shows a representation of a baseball diamond with names listed for each of the standard positions. "That's the roster for the July 26th game."

"Thank you."

Luke glances around the room where boys are either seated or congregating in groups of two or three. "Well, it looks like most of them are here. Do you need to speak to the entire team?"

"No, only those who were playing that day. For now."

Luke nods and stands up, calling for attention. He waits for all conversation to halt, and then dismisses those who didn't play on July 26th.

Ten boys remain, and those who weren't already sitting made their way to seats around the table.

"Gentlemen, this is Veronica Mars - a private investigator hired to prove Coach Cook's innocence."

Veronica braces herself, and isn't surprised when, in typical male fashion, the boys express surprise that she works in a male-dominated field. They chatter among themselves until Luke whistles to interrupt. "Trust me. She knows what she's doing. She saved my ass back in high school. She's a pro."

What follows, is several minutes of mostly sexist comments questioning her investigative prowess. She grits her teeth at the words  _'pocket detective'_.

_Note to self: next time, divide the herd._

She holds up a hand to silence them. "Boys, I've solved 32 homicides with a conviction rate of 87%. I'm fairly sure I can help your coach. But I need your help."

"That is so hot!" her flirty new friend says. "Do you go undercover and wear skimpy disguises and stuff?"

Luke rolls his eyes and steps in. "Why don't you guys take turns introducing yourselves to Veronica?"

"Do you mind if I record our conversation? It'll help me match your names to your faces." Veronica asks, and although some of them appear to have reservations, nobody speaks up. This time, she video records the interview.

"Riley Woods. Short stop," the guy to her left says with his slow grin and a little wave. He's extremely attractive, and he knows it. Typical bad boy. More interested in seeing Veronica naked than in saving his coach's job.

"Brandon Solano. Right field." A lean bronzed god with an angular face and intense green eyes leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. His ivory necklace reminds her of the one Logan wore in high school.

_Gay. And not pleased with Woods' flirtation with me. That's what I was sensing earlier._

"Evan Yates. Third base." He's plump, fair skinned and has probably bitten through his lower lip at some point, if his scar is any indication.

The next guy is almost as wide as he is tall, and all muscle. He reminds her of a pig with his flattish, round nose and small menacing eyes. "James Bakeman. Starting pitcher," he mutters. He makes Veronica uneasy.

The next boy - with dark brown hair and eyes - wears an entitled sneer and looks very familiar. "Jeremy Enbom. First base." He's taller than his... _brother?_...and much bulkier - obviously spending most of his spare time in the gym.

Center fielder, Jordan Cabrera, is a slender Latino with messy hair and a lazy smile. He appears to have nothing to hide.

Gabriel Fischel plays left field and appears bored, but not hostile. He gnaws on a strip of red licorice as he waits to be dismissed.

Another bulked up musclehead introduces himself as Joey Walters, catcher, in a quiet voice. He reminds her of Forest Whitaker with a bad case of nerves.

Dexter Schulke, who plays second base, is an Idaho farm boy. True to type, he seemed like the kind of guy who would probably tell her anything she wanted to know, simply for the sake of having manners.

_He keeps calling me ma'am. When the hell did I become a ma'am?_

With introductions out of the way, Veronica launches into questioning the team. She asks the same questions her father asked Terrance, but has low expectations of getting a straight answer. Attempts to trip them up are unsuccessful.

The boys vehemently deny Terrance Cook's involvement in a game fix.

As expected, they also deny any of their teammates could be involved, but several appear less than convinced of their own words.

_I have their numbers. I'll catch up with them later._

"Do you guys believe that the game was fixed?" This time, although they all deny it, only one of them, Dexter Schulke, looks her in the eyes when he answers. Veronica strikes him from her mental suspect list.

"Okay, I'm going to give each of you my business card," Veronica says, digging through her bag. "Please don't hesitate to call me if you think of anything that could exonerate your coach. Or implicate another party."

She hands a small stack of her new cards to the nearest boy, instructing him to pass it along.

"So if I were to confess to masterminding this, would you tackle me and cuff me?" Jeremy Enbom asks with a disgusting leer.

"Dude. Gross. I know your brother."

"So?"

"He was close with my old boyfriend. Logan Echolls."

_Name dropping? What have you resorted to, Veronica?_

Jeremy smirks. " _Old_  boyfriend? Well, if you find yourself in the market for someone younger and with more stamina…"

_Logan didn't seem to be suffering from a lack of stamina yesterday. And I'm fairly certain your testicles are shriveled up from steroids._

Luke walks her back to the parking lot. "My money is still on the ump. He either had no idea what he was doing, or was purposely making bad calls. Watch the tapes. You'll see."

"Well, here we are," Veronica says, thumping her car with her knuckles. "I want to thank you for all of your help today."

"No problem, Veronica. Hey, I'm being auctioned off tonight at the Neptunalia. You should come. You haven't had a chance to laugh at me in years. Or...you could bid...?"

_Is that flirting?_

She rolls the idea over in her mind. He's attractive, funny, sweet. Low intensity.

_Not Logan._

Back in San Diego, she might have encouraged his flirting.

_If flirting is what this is._

But one day back in Logan Echolls' orbit, and everything is turned upside down. And she wants to scream.

She remembers exactly how this goes - having Logan for an ex. Remembers those last few months before she'd moved away from Neptune. He was a hard guy to move on from. If every other man were a candle flame, he was the blazing sun. More intense. More alive. More...hers.

And as terrified as she is of putting her heart out there for him to crush again, the idea of anybody else being capable of holding her attention after yesterday's encounter is laughable.

She remembers that futility of searching for somebody who might shine as brightly as Logan. Remembers settling for Piz, who had seen that same light in her, and the way she'd broken his heart.

_No, Luke doesn't deserve that._

"I am coming," she answers. "To show support to my best friend, Wallace."

"And Logan Echolls?"

Her eyes narrow. "What about him?"

"Well, I heard how you got in a fight with Madison Sinclair over him. I thought maybe you two might be back together."

"You heard  _what?"_ Veronica's jaw drops.

* * *

**Neptune Fairgrounds**

The first Neptunalias were celebrated by ancient Romans in hopes of currying favor with the sea god – for safe voyages, clean drinking water, and plenty of rainfall for their crops. For two days in late July - the heart of drought season - they would feast and drink, race horses and play games of skill.

Modern Neptunians have preserved many of the original customs. And perverted others.

The festival takes place in August (California's hot season) - rather than July, and citizens train for months to participate in the water games and equestrian events.

Of course, there's no lack of gambling, feasting and drinking. Attendance is typically strong, as Neptunalia is a popular  _'slumming'_  destination for the 09er set, and the working class always seems to be up for a celebration.

Veronica arrives two hours before the auction is scheduled to begin, stopping first outside of a black-painted paddock fence where a horse jumping competition is taking place.

This event had been their annual ritual. Closing her eyes, she can clearly visualize her mother's face as they sat together in the wooden stands years ago, her voice explaining the intricacies of the sport. She can almost smell her mom's Gucci perfume on the breeze - the same scent Celeste always wore.

_Funny how I thought that was a coincidence._

For the briefest of moments, she lowers the wall around her heart. Allows herself to miss her mother.

Keith had chuckled indulgently at the amount of analysis his wife put into her equestrian predictions – bloodlines, rider skill, field conditions. Before the decline of the Reynolds family fortunes, riding had been Lianne's childhood passion.

Veronica's predictions had always been a tad bit shallower. Prettiest horse. No more, no less

Today's prettiest horse is a glossy black named Raspberry Premonition ridden by a Pomroy cousin. Of the eight horses competing, he places sixth.

_And...My losing streak continues._

Veronica brushes some stray paint chips off her short black dress before continuing down the path. She can't exactly explain why she'd chosen to change into something so revealing after leaving Hearst.

The Grecian-style bodice separates her breasts and plunges to the empire waist, out from which the skirt flows to several inches above the knee. Only the summer-weight crinkled linen fabric and the hidden side pockets make the dress casual enough to wear to the festival.

At the shore, she stops to admire the entries in the sand sculpting competition. In addition to the traditional palaces, dragons, and sea monsters, are several pop culture tributes. The Mockingjay symbol from the Hunger Games, a full-body Yoda that Logan would love, Gandalf, from Lord of the Rings, with flowing beard and hair, and a giant Dalek.

The scent of wet sculpted sand takes her back in time like a punch to the gut. This had been Lilly's forte. Taught by some guy named Paulo during a week in Rome, she'd taken to the art surprisingly well, placing fifth in 2003 with a rendering of Captain Jack Sparrow. Veronica had been outraged that her friend hadn't placed higher, but Lilly had laughed it off, explaining she'd already won the moment she'd seen the embarrassment on her mother's face.

She hums along to Bananarama's Cruel Summer, issuing from the pole-mounted speakers, as she walks along the beach, stopping occasionally to watch the events - a paddleboard competition, a volleyball game, a hilarious lifeguard obstacle course, and surfboard water polo.

She shakes the sand out of her strappy bronze sandals before making her way to the fairgrounds' Main Street, where food trucks stretch out as far as the eye can see. Of course, her stomach insists that it's time to eat.

She starts off with a fresh-squeezed lemonade, digging her straw into the bottom of the cup to get at the sugar before it's has a chance to dissolve into the drink. She sips at it while she examines her food options.

Closing her eyes, she inhales, each scent making her knees weaker - sizzling beef and peppers, fried dough, gyros, Italian sausage, cavatelli, garlic bread, and fresh cut fries. Cinnamon almonds and caramel corn.

_A girl could die from sensory overload! I do believe this will require a plan._

She considers what she might be in the mood for.

_Pretty much everything._

What does she have room for in her belly?

_Much less._

Pizza and French fries are immediately dismissed. Although both are favorites, she can get them anywhere at any time. Gyros, corn dogs, and italian sausage sandwiches are less available in daily life, thus elevated on her list.

_But those will make me too full for anything else. Maybe I should plan from lightest to heaviest. A little cotton candy, followed by a funnel cake or a caramel apple before I hit the heavy stuff._

Her phone rings. Anonymous.

"Hello?"

"Is this...Veronica Mars?" He's young, and obviously attempting to deepen his voice.

"Who's this?" She covers her opposite ear to block out the sounds of Kanye Wests' ' _Stronger_ ' coming from a nearby ride.

"It doesn't matter who I am. I met you today. At Hearst. You wanted us to call if we knew anything about that game. The one coach is accused of fixing?"

"Okay?"

"I just...uh...I wanted to tell you I think Coach Haldeman did it."

She turns away from the midway, walking to a quiet area on the path back towards the beach. "Luke _?_ Why do you suspect him?"

"Well, I know he's broke. Like really broke. This guy I know saw him at a pawn shop. Trying to sell a bunch of junk. He seemed pretty desperate for cash."

"Hmmm" she answers taking a seat on a bench and digging through her bag for her pad and pen. "Which pawn shop?"

"The one over on 1st and Adams."

Veronica writes this down.

"Who do you suppose he was working with?"

"Huh?"

"He would have to have an accomplice on the team."

"No!" Her caller sounds a little panicked. "Nobody. No one on the team would do that. It was all him. Giving the wrong hand signals and stuff."

_Right...Hand signals._

Veronica rolls her eyes. "Is there anything else you remember?"

"No, that's it."

"Okay, I appreciate your help. If you think of anything else significant, give me a call."

He disconnects the call without a goodbye.

She uses her phone to create a digital reminder to have Mac look into Luke's financials when she has a chance, (and to trace the caller while she's at it).

_Now back to the important stuff. Like what to eat?_

She rises from the bench intending to follow the path to the right back to the food strip, but shouts from her left capture her attention. She takes a few steps closer to get a better look.

Between here and the beach, on a grassy patch where the light doesn't quite rech, a tall fair-haired boy stands nose-to-nose with an equally tall Latino boy, on the verge of fighting.

_Or making out?_

_09ers vs. PCH-ers - The Next Generation - if their posses are any indication._

Both factions are equally matched, and it appears to be mere posturing, but her cop instincts itch to break it up.

Before she can make a decision, a large hand covers her eyes from behind.

Her heart seizes and a scream bubbles up in her throat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N See my Tumblr for songs mentioned in this chapter. Add /tagged/SilverFics-playlists to the end of the my URL  
> A/N1 - SO much more was supposed to happen in this chapter, but by the time I wrote the first draft of what this was supposed to include, it was up to around 20K words. I could never post something that large, so I'm actually splitting it into three chapters. The second is mostly done. The third hasn't begun to be edited, so will probably jump in size. Kind of bummed, because the one after that is where things start getting good (three chapters after this).  
> A/N2 As always, major thanks to ShanghaiLily/HappilyShanghaied, who beta'd this chapter over a period of several months and probably doesn't even remember what happens any more.


	7. Episode 2/Part 3  Neptunalia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Into every dark story must fall the occasional bit of fluff. Don't get used to it.
> 
> This chapter is rated M
> 
> Images for this chapter: http://mysilverylining.tumblr.com/post/76857224070/companion-post-neptune-ep-2-part-3
> 
> Songs mentioned in this chapter:  
> http://mysilverylining.tumblr.com/post/75295509504/neptune-playlist

 

 

**Veronica**

Between here and the beach, on a grassy patch where the light doesn't quite reach, a tall fair-haired boy stands nose-to-nose with an equally tall Latino boy, on the verge of fighting.

_Or making out?_

_09ers vs. PCH-ers -the next generation - if their posses are any indication._

Both factions are equally matched, and it appears to be mostly posturing, but Veronica's cop instincts itch to break it up before it has a chance to escalate.

Before she can make a decision, a large hand covers her eyes from behind.

Her heart seizes and a scream bubbles up in her throat.

_Smooth, uncalloused skin. Expensive aquatic scented cologne. Inexplicable familiarity?_

She identifies him just in time to stop herself from stomping down hard on his foot.

_Dammit Logan! Do you realize how on edge I am?_

Her voice is deceptively steady in comparison to the racing of her heart. "I've tasered people for less."

"You wouldn't taser me," Logan says. "I'm too pretty. Plus, that might injure my sperm count or something."

"Oh, and  _that's_  a deterrent." She can't roll her eyes with a hand pressed to them, but her tone makes her point.

"So I guess that's a  _'no'_  on the 2.5 kids?"

She holds back the smirk. "Ya think?"

Soft lips press to the side of her temple, and her heart aches at the tenderness of the gesture.

"Open your mouth and say ahhh."

"None of that funny business, Mister," she says in a lame attempt at Mae West. "This is a family event."

He snickers, and something warm and sugary pushes at her lower lip. "Trust me. Have I ever put anything in your mouth that you didn't like?"

She can't fight the grin this time.  _Don't take the bait, Veronica._

"Fine," she sighs. "But this had better be worth it." She opens her mouth wide. "Ahhhh"

Logan feeds her something the size of a donut hole. When she bites into it, her taste buds explode. She drops back against Logan's chest as if boneless.

No stranger to Veronica's dramatic swooning for food, he catches her effortlessly.

Chocolate. Cream. Dough. Powdered sugar.

"Oh. My. God. That's better than sex."

"Deep fried Oreos." His lips brush against her ear as he whispers, "And you really should have more sex with somebody who knows what they're doing."

She involuntarily shivers at the contact.  _Seduction by sugar? He remembers me too well._

She really should pull away, but how can she face him after what happened yesterday? She can barely face herself in the mirror.

_Your panties aren't going to magically fly off just from looking at him, Veronica._

Regretfully, she pulls away from him.

Regretfully, because she can't think of many things in life better than having her body pressed against Logan Echolls. And regretfully, because she was better off not knowing how delectable he looks in his snug black v-neck and dark jeans that probably cost more than a month's rent of her San Diego apartment. He radiates health and vitality, and it's not only his new and improved physique. It's...something more.

_At least one of us is getting eight hours every night._

"Hi," she says, aware that she's grinning like an idiot.

"Hey." His eyes are warm and intense, and her stomach flip-flops in response. She presses her free hand to her hip. Keeping her panties in place, just in case.

It's still surreal seeing him in the flesh. Despite her best efforts not to think about him over the years, his image has never been too far from her consciousness. Ambushing her dreams and hijacking her fantasies.

She'd never accounted for improvement, though. If he was beautiful before, he's an Adonis now.

_And he's looking at me like Backup looks at a Beggin' Strip. Why did I choose this dress again?_

"You look amazing."

_Oh yeah. That's why._

Suddenly self-conscious, she tugs at her bodice in futility.

_Nice move. Now I've drawn his attention to my cleavage even more._

Not that he didn't get any eyeful yesterday.

_This is bad._

_Isn't it?_

"Hot date tonight?" he asks, tilting his head slightly to the right.

_Resist the urge to say 'raincheck'._

"No. I just...lightweight...the weather…" She's somehow forgotten how to form coherent sentences.

"Or is that dress for me?" He moves a step closer, his smile morphing into a cocky smirk.

"Noooo." Big. Dramatic. Eyeroll. "How could I possibly know I would run into you? You found me, remember?"

Logan leans closer, and snatches the bachelor's auction schedule from where it it's peeking out from her bag's outer pocket.

"Would you look at that?" he says, pointing at his own name. "I'm scheduled to be here tonight. Who could have guessed?"

She plays innocent, shrugging her shoulders with both palms facing up in a  _what-can-you-do_? gesture. "Not me. I'm only here for Wallace."

His knowing expression says she's not fooling anyone. "I think a dress like that is wasted on Wallace, but just so you know, it has my full attention."

_Don't react._

She exhales and glances away.

The 09ers and PCHers have resolved their conflict on their own, each group calling insults over their shoulders as they saunter away in an opposite directions.

"Some things never change." She shakes her head and turns back to Logan.

_Why do I feel like Red Riding Hood under the gaze of the Big Bad Wolf?_

_Run._

She snatches the warm paper boat of deep fried nirvana from his hands and strides away, knowing full well he won't let her get away that easily.

He jogs to catch up. "Hey, I never said you could have them all."

She twists away preventing him from stealing it back, a playful smirk on her face. "It's like you don't know me at all."

"At least let me have one more."

She stops walking and holds up a finger. "One more. And put your hands behind your back."

Logan laughs and dutifully obeys her command.

As she lifts the battered and fried Oreo to his mouth, she makes the mistake of meeting his eyes, which intensify to the point that her heart thumps and she's unable to look away.

_Oh Shit. That's it. I need to avoid him like the a communicable disease._

"Well, this was a blast." She walks away again. "See ya."

He falls in beside her.

Of course.

_Keep the smile on the inside, Veronica._

She pops another deep fried Oreo into her mouth, marveling that somebody had the ingenuity to invent the little desert.

There has to be something seriously wrong with her. As much as she wants Logan to just go away and leave her safe behind her emotional fortress – to stay away and not complicate her already considerably fucked-up life – the tiniest part of her wants him not to give up on her. To find something in her still worth fighting for. She needs to shut that part down.

_Please go away..._

_...but don't fall behind._

Walking with Logan, falling right back into the snark and banter...it feels natural. Fun. Energizing. It might be cliché, but it feels like home. They just click. Always have.

Logan steals her lemonade, and she's too busy chewing to argue.

"D'you check out the sand sculptures?" he asks.

"Mmm hmm." she answers as she swallows. "There was a Yoda you would have loved."

"It wasn't bad. Lilly could have done better."

"She was something…" Veronica says wistfully. "I was just thinking about her sand sculptures earlier."

"She made this bulldog once that looked so real I wouldn't have been surprised if it stood up and humped her leg. I think that one was my favorite." He sips her lemonade again before handing the cup back to her.

"Mine was the naked Logan."

_Yes Veronica, that was your outside voice._

He chokes before he can swallow, and Veronica has to tuck the cup against her side and whack him on the back several times before he can breathe again.

He turns to her, face still red from coughing. "She sculpted a naked ME out of the sand?"

Laughter at the memory wars with the pain of losing Lilly. "That's not the best part. Remember how she used to always try to embarrass me with talk of sex and her exploits?"

"Yeah. Who knew such a bobcat lurked inside that blushing ingénue?"

"Well...since I'd never actually seen one in the flesh – at the time – she tried to convince me that your...um...manly bits hung down to your knees. She left it there too, intact, for anybody to find."

Logan covers his face with both hands and shakes his head. "She always did sell me short."

Veronica laughs and bumps shoulders with him.

_God, I've missed you._

* * *

The sun is setting, and lights are coming on at the food strip. People stare at them as they pass. 09ers and 02ers alike. Young and old. Some scowl. Some wave, and Logan waves back. Women stare at him in a predatory manner, but his face doesn't register their interest - he simply moves his hand to the small of Veronica's back.

"Using me as a human shield, Echolls?"

"Maybe I just like to touch you, Mars. And if it discourages the cougars...?" He shrugs.

She doesn't remember Mayor Wilson or Mayor Goodman attracting this much attention. Then again, they weren't the offspring of a murderous, Oscar winning actor, and two-time  _'People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive'_.

_Funny. Logan could out-sexy his dad any day of the week. Effortlessly._

The heavy scent of sugar in the air captures her attention. She shoves the deep fried Oreos into Logan's hands, and follows her nose to the cotton candy booth, where she gets in line.

An adjacent tent shades a handful of picnic tables for patrons of the hamburger stand on its other side. Music plays from a large speaker in the rear - 'I Can't Help Myself' by the Four Tops.

**In and out my life**  
**You come and you go**  
**Leaving just your picture behind  
** **And I've kissed it a thousand times**

A curly haired girl of about five dances in the arms of her grandfather, and Veronica shares an amused look with Logan.

"I'd buy you a cotton candy, but then you might get the idea that this is a date rather than a stalking." She smirks to soften her words.

Logan plays dumb. "You'd rather I think you're stalking me? Is this some new—"

She shoves him in the shoulder again.

"No need for violence." He rubs exaggeratedly on his arm.

**'Cause sugar pie, honey bunch**  
**I'm weaker than a man should be**  
**I can't help myself  
** **I'm a fool in love, you see**

The vendor hands a bag of popcorn to the couple in front of her, and they turn to leave.

"Hey, Logan," the girl says in a silky voice. Blonde, tan, huge gravity defying boobs spilling out of her skintight bandage dress, she's a foot taller and forty years younger than her husband. Dripping in jewels and lavender perfume.

_The (not-so) elusive spangled SoCal trophy wife._

"Hey...Brianna?" Logan answers. Bored and noncommittal. It could be an act, though. He responded the same way when Madison showed up at his penthouse that day.

"Bianca," the girl corrects with a pout.

"Mayor Echolls," the husband nods and pats Logan's shoulder before guiding his wife away.

Veronica's eyes meet Logan's in question.

" _What?_ " He raises both hands in self-defense. "I've never touched her."

She lifts one eyebrow. "I didn't ask."

The dancing grandfather in the tent dips his granddaughter who giggles hysterically.

"My dad used to do that with me."

"He still would if he were big enough to pick you up."

She laughs and turns back nodding in agreement.

**'Cause sugar pie, honey bunch**  
**You know that I'm waiting for you**  
**I can't help myself  
** **I love you and nobody else, ooh**

_Of course he's looking at me like that._

"How can I help you?" the vendor asks returning to the window and breaking her eye contact with Logan.

"Cotton Candy," she says. "Pink, please."

The man nods, plucks a paper cone from the stack, and dips it into the vat of spun sugar.

She turns back to Logan. "Hey. You remember Luke Haldeman?"

"Good jumper? Fond of piñatas?"

"That's the one. Any chance he might be broke now?"

"I've heard rumors. He's not  _'Sean Freidrich broke'_ , if that's what you mean."

"I'm thinking more  _'Bet against his own team'_  broke.

"No." Logan shakes his head. "Not Luke. He'd be the last person I'd ever suspect of that. He won't even play poker with us because he doesn't like to take risks."

"He took steroids back in high school. That was pretty risky."

He shakes his head again. "Depends on how you look at it. Maybe he was afraid to risk his talent not being enough to get him recruited. We all did risky stuff back in high school, but now I'm a mayor and you're a detective. Luke's a good guy, Veronica."

She takes a moment to process this, turning back to watch mesmerized as the vender twirls pink spun sugar onto a paper cone for her.

"Give me one of those too," Veronica says, pointing to a row of caramel apples coated in colorful sprinkles. She pays the man and hands the second item to Logan.

He smiles widely. "So it  _is_  a date."

"Nope. I just never see an apple without thinking of you."

_And how strangely turned-on I used to get watching you eat them._

"So you admit you were thinking about me over the years."

"The bonus, is that as soon as your teeth are cemented to that thing..." She points to the caramel apple with her thumb. "You'll no longer be able to make smug comments."

He nods in approval. "Smart. But you can be assured that I'll be thinking them."

"You wouldn't be you if you weren't."

Her change – three quarters – drops into her open palm with a clink, and she walks away. Logan tosses the remaining Oreos in the trash and falls in at her side.

Sweet cotton candy dissolves on her tongue, and in her periphery Logan tilts his head and opens wide to take a bite of his apple, calling her attention to the long line of his throat.

_Damn._

Logan swallows, and then speaks again. "Hey, if you need to talk to Luke, he'll be at the auction tonight."

"I know."

"You're planning to bid on me, right?" He flutters his lashes at her.

"Right...I turned down your dinner invitation because I want to _pay_  to date you." She rolls her eyes.

"It's okay. I'd pay to date me, too. I'll even be nice and reimburse you. Since it's going to charity and everything."

"Lower your expectations, Logan. I won't be bidding on you or anybody else. I'm only going to make sure Wallace doesn't end up with another crazy."

He nods, and flashes a sad half-smile. "It's fine. I never actually expected to get that lucky today."

_I never said you wouldn't get lucky._

_God! Where did that thought even come from? What's wrong with me?_

Logan sighs tragically. "Well...whomever I end up on a date with, I'll be wishing it were you."

_You don't know the half of it._

Veronica's gut twinges with guilt. He's not going to be happy at all to find out about the Madison situation.

_Should I warn him?_

No. He would probably skip the auction altogether, and it wouldn't be fair to deprive charity of that much money.

Ahead to the right, the yellow and red sign flickers on a Belgian waffle truck. Reminding her...

"I got your breakfast."

"In my dreams, when you say that, I'm still in bed and you're holding a tray." One corner of his lip curls up. "Naked."

She rolls her eyes. "I met your friend Pete this morning."

"I don't have a friend, Pete."

"Pete's Concessions? The food truck?"

"Oh. That's Louie. Pete's his father."

"His father? That man had to be like eighty years old."

He raises his eyebrows. "You should see his dad."

She stops and puts a hand on his forearm, realizing belatedly that her fingers are sticky from the cotton candy. "Logan, what do you think you're doing?"

"Like…philosophically?"

"No. The food truck this morning? The white noise machine last night? You can't keep spending money on me."

"Did it work?" Logan ducks down a little to examine her face. "You look a bit more rested today."

"It worked fine," she sighs. "And stick to the subject."

He holds up a finger. "I didn't spend a penny on the breakfast."

"Right…wrinkled old Louie stopped by out of the goodness of his heart?"

He licks two pink sprinkles off the side of his index finger. "No. Well...he's doing it as a favor. For the rest of the week, by the way."

"A favor?" she repeats, heavy on the skepticism.

"Well yeah. I just waived a few fines and reinstated his vendor's license in time for the festival."

_Look stern, Veronica._ "So basically, you're using your public office for personal gain."

He gestures wide with both hands. "What do you expect? This is Neptune, California, not Pleasantville."

An outsider could never understand her relief at Logan's exhibit of minor corruption.

Her lips curl up in an evil grin. "Good to know my bad boy hasn't gone  _too_  soft while I was away."

He ducks his head, but she catches a glimpse of a smile.

_Note to self. When trying_ _**not** _ _to encourage a guy, do your best not to refer to him as 'yours', or in any other possessive manner._

"I have levels of bad I have not yet begun to plumb," Logan says.

"Sure you do, tough guy." She pats his arm. "So how does this play out in your head? I fall into your arms in gratitude for your little gifts?"

"You fell into my arms a minute ago in gratitude for my sugar."

"You know what I mean. What are you trying to accomplish?"

"Accomplish…" He draws out the word. "You know exactly what I want to accomplish. Eventually." The intensity in his eyes leaves little room for misinterpretation.

_There's this thing called breathing, Veronica. You should try doing it some time._

"It can't happen, Logan," she says softly, shaking her head.

"For now though..." he continues as if she hadn't spoken. "...I only want your happiness."

"My happiness…?" she repeats, as if it's a foreign concept.

He reaches out, putting a hand on her arm. Eyes large and sincere. "There's something really wrong with you, Veronica. I don't know what it is, and I probably couldn't fix it even if I did."

She turns away, pretending interest in a caricature artist.

Logan gives her arm a gentle shake to make her look at him. "All I can do is help take the pressure off."

"How?'

"By helping you sleep better." His thumb brushes the thin skin under her eye. "And by giving you a good start to the day. And by offering you my full support."

"So you're saying that the food and the white noise machine were simply selfless gestures for making my life easier?"

"Now who doesn't know who?" He gives her a level stare. "I don't do selfless."

"What do you have to gain by me sleeping or eating?"

"Because if you're at top form - well-fed and well-rested and less stressed - there's a better chance you'll be able to solve your own problem."

Veronica looks at her feet, a smile tugging at her lips.

"After which," Logan continues, running his fingers down her bare arm. "I'm coming after you like an unstoppable force."

He's smirking again, so she rolls her eyes. "What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?"

"I'll tell you if I ever meet one." He kisses the tip of her nose and jumps away laughing when she swats out at him.

They walk in silence for a minute, both concentrating on their sticky treats. Logan finishes first, tossing the stick into a trashcan and then snakes his arm around her shoulders. Without thinking, she leans affectionately into his side, belatedly realizing what kind of message that would send.

"Logan?" She wiggles her shoulders. "What do you think you're doing?"

"With my life?"

"With your arm. We're not dating."

Logan switches to that innocent act he was always so talented at. Eyes lowered. Little boy voice. "Well, those online success training courses Gia forces me to take all the time tell me to  _'perform as if I already have the job I want, instead of the one I have'_."

"Fake it until you make it?" She snorts, finishing off her lemonade and tossing the cup in the garbage. "You can't compare dating to a job, Logan."

"Ha! You've never tried dating you."

She elbows him in the side. "You say that as if it was hard labor."

"Well, it's not a job for the faint of heart."

_Faint of heart? Like my last three boyfriends?_

She glares at him.

"But I am fully qualified and have plenty of on-the-job experience."

"Experience being fired, maybe," she grumbles. "Several times."

"I prefer to think of them as temporary layoffs. Until the economy picked back up."

She stops walking and turns to face him. "Was it really that difficult to date me?"

He nods. "Very. Long hours with very little recognition, and occasional unsafe working conditions." His eyes are velvety soft, and he runs his palm along her jawline. "It was the most rewarding job I've ever had."

Butterflies take flight in her belly, and she can't pull away from his gaze.

Logan's fingers spread to cup her cheek, and he brushes a soft kiss against her forehead. Switches to his soft sexy voice. "I think it just might be my true calling."

Veronica's breath hitches and she stares at Logan with widened eyes. She wants to kiss him. She also wants to move to another continent to escape him. The lump in her throat makes it hard to swallow, and she catches herself searching for some kind of rationalization that would make it okay to be with him.

Finally, she settles on banter. Cupping his cheek in return, she smiles. "You just liked the benefits package." She flicks her eyes down to her body and back up again.

Logan grins, bites his lower lip and nods. "Definitely. It was very...comprehensive."

She shakes hers head in amusement and begins walking again, trying to re-erect the emotional barriers he'd slipped behind. He walks beside her, quiet, but looking rather proud of himself.

Funny. Of her four long-term boyfriends - Duncan, Logan, Michael and Pete - only Logan has experienced the full-force of her personality - the bad as well as the good. Her vengeful and temperamental sides. Screaming matches and GPS tracking and chronic mistrust and her tendency to jump to conclusions.

She hadn't really trusted any of the others either, but she'd learned to hide it better after Logan. She'd become an expert at hiding the facets she didn't want anyone else to see. Presenting herself as the person she wanted to be. But even wearing her mask of civility, she'd been too much for the other three. Overwhelming them.

On the other hand, Logan has seen her at her ugliest - her absolute worst - and not only handled it, but still wants more.

_Glutton for punishment!_

At the sound of his name, Logan turns around. He stops to greet two Latina grandmothers, and Veronica thinks this would be the perfect chance to lose him. Just escape into the crowd while his attention is elsewhere.

She can't explain why she stays. Or why she doesn't protest when his arm slips around her waist and tugs her closer.

"Mrs. Aviles, Mrs. Riojas, this is Veronica, my past and future girlfriend."

Both pairs of eyes glitter with interest at Veronica's introduction. They've apparently heard her name before, somehow. But while Mrs. Aviles smiles at Logan as if he's accomplished something great, Mrs. Riojas examines Veronica (and her cleavage) with suspicion.

"Pleased to meet you," she shakes their hands firmly.

Mrs. Aviles is small and round with curly chin length hair and a powdery perfume. Mrs. Riojas has a firm handshake. She's tall and thin, and her hair is pulled back severely into a low bun.

"Disregard that future girlfriend thing. Logan is being over-confident."

"What's wrong with Logan?" Mrs. Riojas asks, eyes narrowing even more.

Veronica sighs and glances at her ex. "Nothing is wrong with Logan. I'm the problem."

The lady turns back to Logan. "What's wrong with finding a nice girl who likes you back? Whatever happened to that other girl? She was always nice."

_What other girl?_

Mrs. Aviles interrupts. "Don't listen to her. You seem like a lovely young lady." She offers Veronica an indulgent smile, and turns back to interrogate Logan.

He, for his part, seems to take it well. Yes, he's well. He's eating healthily. Yes, he's taking vitamins and exercising, and sleeping well. Yes, he's making progress on the pool project.

Veronica finishes her cotton candy, listens to Justin Timberlake singing the opening verse of ' _Holy Grail'_  from a nearby speaker, and forces herself not to purr as Logan's thumb rubs half circles against her side.

_Why didn't I escape when I had the chance again?_

Perhaps sensing she was on the verge of fleeing, Logan says his goodbyes and guides her away.

_I should do something about that arm around me._ "I'm speechless," Veronica says instead.

"There's a first time for everything."

"Weren't those ladies picketing when the Felix Toombs murder charges were dropped?"

Logan shrugs. "Possibly. You were there. The entire 02 zip code was there."

"And now they're reminding you to take your vitamins?" She can't hide her incredulity.

"What can I say?" He smirks. "This boyish face just makes women want to mother me."

"Right...I feel like there's a story there."

"I'll tell you about it." He kisses the top of her head. "Over dinner."

"Guess I'll never know then," she says in a sing-song voice as they wander into the midway.

* * *

**Logan**

Despite his strike-outs, things aren't going badly with Veronica.

She still loves him. He's sure of it. Even if he'd imagined the love in her eyes yesterday, he'd seen it again minutes ago. Clear and shining, before she'd covered with a joke.

The physical connection is as strong as ever – both their attraction to each other, and the way he can't seem to stop touching her. The way she seems to enjoy it.

The old Veronica used to jump in, swallowing her reservations. Always a pretender. Pretending she didn't love him when they were apart, and pretending she wasn't still angry at him when they were together.

This new, mature, version is different. More damaged. More hesitant. Afraid. He needs to prove she has nothing to fear from him. That he'll never hurt her again.

_Question is, how can I prove myself, when I can't convince her to spend time with me?_

He purchases fresh-squeezed lemonade for each of them, and stops to glance around.

He loves it here. Always has. The lights. The scents. The crowds. The tawdriness. Some of his best memories are from Neptunalia. And some of his worst. Memories of friendship and love, getting wasted and fighting. And tonight, maybe new beginnings.

The midway is a riot of colors – from the hundreds of hanging stuffed prizes to the striped awnings and blinking signs. Hawkers call out from every direction, inviting patrons to test their skill at darts or speed pitch or shooting galleries. Offering to guess weights and ages.

An idea comes to him. "Hey," he says, snatching her free hand and pulling her towards a row of games. "Remember Junior year on my couch when our relationship was still a secret, and I promised I'd win you a stuffed animal?"

"Vaguely," she answers with an air of affected indifference.

"So here's the plan. I win you one right now, and you go to dinner with me."

She laughs aloud. "If you somehow won me the  _exact_  one you offered, I would  _have_  to go to dinner with you."

"Deal."

"You think it'll be that easy?"

"You think I'll give up?"

Logan moves towards a balloon dart game, but Veronica digs in her heels pulling him to a stop. "Huh-uh Buddy." She shakes her head. "Ring toss."

_Crap._

"I suck at ring toss," he whines.

"That's the deal." Veronica shrugs. "You were supposed to win it through ring tossing ability."

"Fine." He scans the midway, locating a ring toss game in the center. "C'mon." He pulls her along.

The Ring-The-Bottle booth is four-sided with a red, yellow and blue enamel painted frame. Bright florescent lights mounted on the four corner supports illuminate what appears to be a hundred pale green, glass jugs arranged on the inner platform.

"Hey," Logan says to the game operator.

"What'll it be?" the scrawny, tanned man asks, rising from his stool. He has long, slick brown hair, and wears loose jeans, a muscle shirt and a braided leather bracelet on his right wrist. Logan recognizes the English Leather cologne his asshole paternal grandfather used to wear. "Three rings for a dollar, or twenty for five bucks."

Logan pulls a crisp $50 from his wallet. "Just keep 'em coming until I win."

The man shows no reaction. Simply brings over a galvanized steel bucket of multi-colored rings, setting it on the blue counter with a thud. "Go for it, bro. Two ringers in a row wins any prize."

"This game isn't rigged is it?"

_As if he'd admit if it was._

The vendor grabs a handful of rings from a nearby bucket and vaults over to Logan's side of the counter. Leaning forward, he tosses them, managing to ring four bottles out of his six attempts, while Veronica watches intently. He then jumps back to his side of the counter and sweeps his arm out over the bottles like a hippie Vanna White.

"Guess not," Logan says. He blows out a breath and rubs his hands together, scanning the prizes hanging from the ceiling. "Do any of those say 'I love you'?" He points up.

The man reaches for a pink piglet, but Veronica interrupts. "No, it has to be a bear. Holding a heart that says  _'I wuv you beary much'_."

Both the game operator and Logan stare, although for different reasons.

"So much for  _vaguely_  remembering," He says drily.

She smirks and shrugs. "Told you it wouldn't be easy."

"Will you negotiate at least on the  _'wuv'_?"

She tilts her head and taps her lip as if thinking it over. "I'll accept 'love' as a substitution."

"I knew you liked me." He holds back his grin, not wanting to push his luck, and picks up a grayish blue ring from the bucket.

He runs a thumb along the plastic seam, considering how to go about this. Should he toss underhand or overhand? Aim for a specific bottle, or hope for a random ringer.

The bottles touch, so if he misses, it should bounce onto another bottle.

He tosses the ring.

Clink.

And misses.

The game operator half-heartedly searches through his inventory and Veronica sips at her lemonade, pretending to be bored.

Logan misses again with red ring.

And with a yellow one.

And with another blue one.

Miss. Miss. Miss. Miss. Miss. Miss. Hit. Miss. Miss. Hit. Miss.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

"Sorry man, I don't have a bear like you described." The operator says, returning to slide back onto his stool.

"Well...it's been fun," Veronica says, turning away.

Logan catches up with her, throws an arm around her shoulders, and steers her back to the game. "You don't honestly think I'm going to give up that easily."

"You always did in the past," she says, and Logan detects a trace of bitterness in her voice.

_Another hit. She's killing me tonight._

"I know." he answers quietly, angling her to face him. "And I've had years to regret it."

She searches his eyes, and then exhales, looking away and motioning at the prizes. "They don't have the bear, and to be honest, you suck at this game."

"Then it's a good thing I'm rich."

Logan beckons the vendor over. "Listen man, I need your help."

"How so?"

"You ever have that one girl you just know you'll never get over? No matter how much time passes or how much distance?"

Veronica's carefully blank expression settles into something softer.

"Erica Kelley." The man answers, eyes wistful. "She was this feisty redhead from Vegas."

"Erica Kelley," Logan repeats. "Well this is Veronica.  _My_  Erica Kelley."

She extends an awkward wave, as the man looks her over appraisingly.

Logan faces her and continues. "I've loved her for as long as I can remember. Even after six years with no contact, she is still, and always will be, the love of my life."

A choking sound comes from Veronica, and she quickly turns her face away. Not before Logan glimpses the wetness in her eyes.

_Keep pretending to be immune to me, babe._

He presses his lips to the top of her head, his heart physically aching for those years when he wasn't able to inhale the familiar clean scent of her silky hair.

Logan turns back to the vendor. "See...She agreed to have dinner with me if I can win her that exact bear, but only because she thinks I won't be able to pull it off."

He tosses another yellow ring. Misses. "And I know if I can just get her to spend some time with me, I can prove to her I'm different, and that  _we_ could be different this time."

"So where do I come in?" The operator asks glancing back and forth between them.

"You can get on that walkie-talkie of yours…" Logan points to the gadget hanging from the man's waistband. "...and contact every worker at this festival. $100 to the first person who can bring me that bear. And another $100 for you."

"Hey, wait!" Veronica protests, "The deal is that you have to  _win_ the bear at ring toss, not buy it."

"But I'm  _not_  buying it. I'm offering a bounty just to hang it up there with the other prizes and give me an opportunity to win it for you."

Veronica tilts her head to think. "Devious, but I'll allow it."

_I wasn't really asking for permission, but it's always easier when you're not opposed._

The man studies Veronica for a moment before turning back to Logan. "Okay, I'll help you."

The game operator moves off to his corner, keeping one eye on Logan while he contacts the other carnies with his walkie-talkie.

Logan takes a long sip of lemonade and goes back to tossing rings. Occasionally, he lands a one on a bottle, but he can't seem to land two in a row for anything.

The operator brings him a second bucket of rings when he wiggles the first empty bucket and returns to his stool.

After several minutes, the man returns. "I'm really sorry, man. Not a single game in this carnival has a bear like the one you've described. I even contacted the lady who runs the inventory truck. There's nothing."

Logan blows out a breath in disappointment, and glances at Veronica. "See anything else you'd like? I still have a dozen or so rings left."

She sighs. "Move out of the way, Chuckles."

Logan steps aside, amused.

_Somehow, I've even missed her schooling me._

Emptying the bucket of the remaining rings, Veronica misses on her first and second attempts.

She stops tossing, pausing to run her fingers around a green colored ring.

"I want those rings," Veronica points to the bucket next to the vendor where he'd snatched his demonstration rings from.

The man's eyes widen in surprise, and then settle into admiration. He exchanges rings, and folds his hands over his chest as Veronica examines the new rings.

"Not as rigid," she notes, tossing a red one with a sideways flick of the wrist and ringing a bottle. "More bounce?"

The man smirks and nods.

She repeats the gesture with a green ring.

_Clink._

"Pick yourself a prize, Logan," she says sweeping her hand out and up.

"For me?" Logan gushes in exaggerated surprise.

Big eye roll. "It's a stuffed animal, Logan, not a commitment."

"Yeah, but you know how it goes." Logan bats his lashes at her. "Stuffed animals today. Tomorrow I'll be wearing your letterman's jacket."

She's always pretended she's not sentimental, but Logan catches a glimpse of her slipping one of the remaining rings into her bag as a souvenir.

"What should I pick?" He examines the selection. "What does that one say?" he asks the man, pointing at a small butter colored bear in a white tee-shirt with its arms wide open.

The man pulls it off the hook and holds it out to Logan. The tee shirt says ' _I love you this much'_.

"Nah. That will never work," Logan says. "Have you seen her arm span?" He moves behind Veronica, lifting her wrists and spreading both her arms wide. "I'm gonna need more love than this."

Laughing, she elbows him away. "Get out of here."

"How about this one?" the man holds out another bear - brown with distressed old-fashioned style fur. Its beige colored tee shirt says  _'My girlfriend won me this bear'_.

"Perfect! I'll take it. Thanks, man." He grins, and tucks the bear under his arm.

Veronica sighs as they walk away. "I'm not your girlfriend, Logan."

"Fake it until you make it. Remember?"

"Interesting strategy, but I wouldn't try writing any dating advice books yet. You weren't very lucky."

"Minor setback. Don't think I'm giving up yet." In fact, new ideas are already spinning in his head.

"Don't you have an auction to get ready for? I figured you'd go with a tux or something."

"Soon, but not yet. I'm enjoying your company."

Logan's good mood splinters, when he recognizes a tall figure approaching from the other end of the midway. He throws his arm around Veronica's shoulders again.

"Logan..." she warns.

He leans closer to speak into her ear. "Leave it. Just for a minute."

"Okay," she says, quietly, recognizing his tone.

Veronica's inhales audibly when Liam draws close enough to be recognizable. His arm is around a tall girl of mixed race who looks familiar.

As always, when they're in the same location, Liam's eyes lock onto Logan's in challenge, his obligatory smug smirk firmly in place. When his eyes slide sideways to inspect Logan's companion, they widen in surprise and his smirk becomes an ugly leer.

Logan's posture goes rigid, and - as if six years haven't passed - Veronica's hand squeezes his waist. Both calming and supportive.

_Still attuned to my moods without me having to say a word._

"Ver-on-ic-a Mars," Liam says, in that ugly clipped manner of his, as they draw near. His eyes move back to meet Logan's, which are twin daggers now, daring Liam to start something.

_I can and will destroy you, fucker. Give me a reason._

He'd been forced to tolerate Liam the past couple years, but he doesn't have to anymore.  _Give me a reason._

Liam snickers, puts a hand up in an _'I-come-in-peace'_  gesture, and moves on without incident.

"I think I need a shower," Veronica says with a shudder.

Logan exhales his pent-up tension. "Great idea. I'll wash your back. I seem to recall you liking that."

"And I seem to recall it being a different 'B' body part you liked washing."

"Butt? Belly? Back?" He runs his eyes up and down her body stopping at her breasts. "I liked all of your...B's."

"Hey, those are almost C's now, Mister." She says, sternly. "Or at least strong B's. That's where all the manicotti is going these days."

"I've noticed," Logan says. "Manicotti looks great on you."

Veronica flashes him a wide, genuine smile, and his heart flutters like he's sixteen again.

"Who was that woman with Liam?"

Logan sighs. "Sure, Veronica, I'd love to stop talking about your bon bons and change the subject back to that vile Irish thug."

"Bon bons?" Veronica rolls her eyes. "What are you, ten? Have some dignity, Mayor Echolls."

"You didn't seem to care about my dignity yesterday in my office," he teases before answering. "I don't know who she is, I've seen them together before, and I feel like I know her from somewhere."

"Me too. I think." Veronica looks back over her shoulder, and then stops. When Logan turns to see what's caught her attention, he notices a second couple speaking with Liam and his date. Moments later, they move away.

"Come with me," Veronica says, grabbing Logan by the hand and dragging him behind a Gyro Truck.

"If you wanted to get me alone..."

"Shhh" she says, creeping down the line of trucks.

No lights shine on this side, and it's very dark. With her free hand, Veronica extracts her cell from her bag, and Logan watches over her shoulder as she brings up a flashlight app. She leaves it dark however, until they come to the fourth truck.

She squeezes Logan's hand once - letting him know to be ready - and then touches the screen, lighting up the night.

Against the adjacent truck, a man has a hand up the shirt of a young girl. He holds up his other hand to shield his eyes from the blinding light. "What the fuck?" he shouts. "Can't you see we're busy?"

"Danny Boyd," Veronica says. "Who's your friend?"

"None of your damn business, bitch. Who the hell are you?"

Logan stiffens. Though not as repulsive as Liam, he's still pretty much scum of the earth.

"You don't remember me?" Veronica turns to Logan. "Should I be offended?"

"Don't take it personally," Logan answers. "Meth kill brain cells."

She turns off the light, and Danny moves closer.

He can just make her out in the fading light. "Veronica Mars? What do you want?"

"Detective Mars, to you." She turns to Danny's companion. "What's your name?"

"Jenny," the scared girl answers.

"How old are you, Jenny?" Veronica asks.

The girl glances at Danny for guidance. "Eighteen?"

"Was that a question? I'm going to need to see some ID."

Logan wouldn't put her at any older than sixteen. Probably younger.

"Don't listen. You don't have to show this bitch shit," Danny says. "She doesn't have any jurisdiction here."

Veronica glances down at her phone, switching it to camera mode. She snaps several pictures of Jenny, blinding her with the flash, before telling her to leave. The girl rushes away in relief.

Veronica turns back to Danny. "I'll be keeping an eye on you, Pedo. I suggest you stick to adults from now on."

"You think I'm afraid of a mouthy bitch like you?" Danny takes a menacing step towards her.

Logan moves to her side, putting an arm around her, and Danny steps back again. "Dammit Echolls!"

He moves to leave, stopping right before going around the corner to call back over his shoulder. "You're nothing in this town, Mars. No more than your daddy."

Veronica clenches her fists as he disappears around the corner and then glances up at Logan. "Don't you want to go beat him up or something?"

"Nope." He bops her on the nose with his index finger. "You'd just hold it against me later."

She has to know he's right, but she glares at him anyway.

"Remember? Mayor? Dignity?" Logan leans back against the truck as Veronica flicks through the photos she'd just taken, deleting the blurry ones. "I know you think I'm sexy when I pummel some poor guy in your honor, but we're both  _dignified_ adults now."

"Shut up! I do NOT think you're sexy when you pummel anybody."

"Oh, you don't?"

"No."

"Who's the first guy I ever beat up for you?"

"How could I possibly remember?" Veronica feigns boredom.

"You remember exactly what I mean. Probably even the exact date. At the Camelot."

"Do you ever shut up?"

He steps closer and runs a thumb along her cheek. "That look on your face? I didn't realize what it meant at first. But I learned to recognize it."

"Stop, Logan."

He sing-songs. "Fighting makes you horny—"

He's silenced with an  _oomph_  when Veronica shoves him hard against the food truck and crushes her mouth to his.

She tastes of lemons and sugar, and she aggressively wants to keep him from speaking.

He smiles at her when she pulls back breathless and dreamy eyed. "You know, I'm really beginning to feel discouraged, here."

"SHUT UP!" She kisses him again roughly.

* * *

**Veronica**

It was only supposed to be a ' _shut-up'_  kiss – only supposed to make his annoying, smirky mouth stop moving – but now he's spinning them around, and it's her back pressed to the truck, her hands clutching at his shirt.

Kissing Logan still makes her dizzy and lightheaded. She crushes herself against his body and, like yesterday, This. Is. Escalating. Quickly.

Somehow, her  _'voice of reason'_  has always fallen silent when Logan's mouth is on hers, and - if she's being honest with herself - she likes it that way. It's freedom from  _shouldn'ts_  and  _can'ts_ and  _don'ts_.

A disappointed sigh escapes her when he pulls away and presses his forehead to hers. She doesn't open her eyes yet - keeps them closed as she spreads her palms across his chest, picturing him as he'd been yesterday – bare, toned, warm to the touch.

_His temperature always did run hot. My own personal furnace._

She opens her eyes and finds Logan staring at her, his dark eyes shining with emotion.

_God, he's beautiful._

"So...dinner?" he asks, with a wry smile.

"No..." It's part sigh, part exasperated laugh. Why does she want to say 'yes' so badly?

"Quickie?" He waggles his eyebrows.

_God, yes!_

She can't help it. She wants him.

_Right now._

It's still so surreal to be here with Logan Echolls. The guy who'd taught her how to fuck as well as make love. That sex didn't always have to be something out of a softly lit Lifetime movie. It could also be dirty and sweaty and raw. Who'd encouraged her to be adventurous. Who'd loved it when she got a little rough or, better yet, took control.

_The one who ruined me for the guys who followed._

Veronica stares at Logan with indecision, and then finally snatches his hand and begins walking at a fast clip.

_Where to?_

"What are you driving?" she asks.

The right side of his mouth turns up, as if he's just now guessing her intentions. "Tonight? The Porsche. You?"

"Convertible. Fuck!" Her eyes dart around. "There has to be someplace private. Maintenance shed?"

Logan's nose screws up in distaste. "Because...the smell of motor oil and grass clippings turns you on? Why don't we just go back to my place?"

Veronica stops and turns in a complete circle, hoping for inspiration. "If we leave, we'll never get you back in time for the auction. You know how backed up traffic gets."

"I fail to see the downside," he mutters.

When her eyes lift again, a wicked grin steals across her face. One glance at Logan, tells her he remembers.

"Um...Veronica? I know I said quickie, but..."

"Come on." She takes off towards the motionless Ferris Wheel, leaving Logan to trail behind. It's dark now, and he's no longer attracting attention.

While the other rides are disassembled every year after the Neptunalia, the Giant Wheel is a permanent fixture of the fairgrounds: 136 feet tall, with 36 passenger cabins in shades of red, blue, yellow, and green – each seating up to six people on facing molded plastic benches. Center poles run from the floors to the umbrella-like roofs.

"Sorry, I'm closed," the ride's operator says as they approach. "I'm about to take my dinner break." The man is short and weasely. Still dressing as he probably did in high school. Back in 1988.

"Just send us up to the top first," Veronica says. "You can leave us there and go eat."

"Just get a motel."

_What? Am I reeking of desperation or something?_

Her face tightens in insult as she flashes the badge she was supposed to turn in before leaving San Diego. ""This is for a police investigation. We're searching for a fugitive and need a birds-eye view. I need you to send us to top and not let anybody else on for the next fifteen minutes."

The man gives her the once-over. "Right…" he drawls. "And if you find your…fugitive" he leers. "…how do you plan on getting back down to apprehend him?"

Veronica's mouth turns up in a brittle smile as she pats her messenger bag. "I'll just radio my partners on the ground."

"Sorry. Can't help you," the man says. "We have rules—" He breaks off as Logan slips him a pair of folded bills. "Then again, rules are made to be broken."

_Why didn't I think of that?_

The man pulls a lever until a yellow gondola lines up at the staging area.

"Can we have a red one?" Logan asks, head tilted forward and forehead wrinkling as he points at the next one in line.

She rolls her eyes.  _Sentimental sap._

"Your dime." THE operator shrugs and leads them to the red gondola once it's staged. "Last chance to change your mind. You're going to be stuck up there for at least 20 minutes."

"We're good."

Logan pushes through the hinged double doors and flops down onto the left bench. Veronica follows, smoothing her dress before taking a seat opposite him. Might as well keep up the charade until they're at the top.

_And then I'll jump him._

He stares at her as if she's the Maltese Falcon, Golden Fleece, and Holy Grail, all wrapped up in one petite package, and she squirms under the intensity.

The operator flips a switch and shakes the doors, ensuring they're locked. "She's not a screamer, is she?" he asks as a parting shot. He continues speaking before either can answer. "Never mind. Who cares? That's why we have music."

"Pig." Veronica flips him off as he walks away.

The ride begins starts moving, and Logan's eyes are like a magnetic force she can't tear herself away from. A grin tugs at her lips and he responds in kind.

"Remember?" her voice sounds entirely too girlish for her liking.

"Remember what?" he asks innocently, his grin widening.

"Nothing," she shrugs, shifting her gaze away and watching the carny, who's bending down to a cabinet and powering on a sound system.

The music kicks in with a loud breathy moan, followed by a slow hip hop beat.

Her eyes flick to Logan who is – of course – smirking.

"Garbage," he identifies the song.

_As if I wouldn't remember this CD. The soundtrack of a dozen stakeouts turned makeouts._

_#1 Crush._ "Did you arrange for this somehow?"

"Did you see me arrange it?" he asks.

**I would die for you**  
**I would die for you**  
**I've been dying just to feel you by my side  
** **To know that you're mine**

Veronica shivers. "This song is so stalker creepy."

"Maybe, but it's super-hot too."

Veronica has to agree. _Very hot._

The ride stops, stranding them at the top of world. At this height they're invisible from the outside, should any of the ant sized people on the ground choose to look up, but inside, they are bathed in a the glow of color-shifting lights.

Logan is leaning back, both arms stretched wide across the top of his seat. "Come here," he commands in that low voice that's always done funny things to her insides.

For maybe three seconds, Veronica considers saying 'No, you come here', but, fuck it, cocky Logan has always inexplicably turned her on. She uses the center pole to pull herself to a standing position. The gondola wobbles, and she clutches the pole more tightly.

"Oh shit. Why did I think this would be a good idea?" she moans.

"It was a perfect idea." Logan says, turning to look at the ground over his shoulder.

_Relax, Veronica. It isn't going to tip you out._ She exhales and inches closer to Logan.

Suddenly, the lights go out, and she lets out a small squeal.

_Of course. Carny Bob needs the ride to appear unoccupied._

Logan chuckles and stretches out a hand. The instant she accepts it, he yanks her on top of him, causing her to cry out and the gondola to pitch wildly.

Veronica clutches the short black metal railing lining the back of the seat with a death grip. When it settles, the cabin is off-balance, so that they're tipped back at a 45 degree angle.

She lets out the breath she was holding, and presses her nose to the side of Logan's neck. The scent of his shampoo is strong here, and somehow, just for a moment, it makes her feel whole. Unbroken.

_Simply sense memory. Nothing more._

She'd refused a third date with a guy once – Teddy, his name had been – because he'd used the same shampoo as Logan.

"Were you asking me if I remembered the last time we rode this Ferris Wheel together?" Logan's mouth is next to her ear, his hands tenderly stroking the bare skin of her back. "In a red car, the summer before our senior year?" The warmth of his breath across her neck causes her nerve endings to prickle. "With you straddling me just like you are now? I might vaguely remember it."

She pulls back and nips at his bottom lip.

Logan chuckles, and looks into her eyes. "I mean, why would I remember the first time I ever got you off? What's so special about the pinnacle of my high school experience?"

Feeling warm all over, she smiles, leans in, and speaks against his mouth. "You made me moan without using your hands."

"Can I use my hands this time?"

"You'd better," she demands, but Logan's not waiting for permission anyway. His hands are under her dress, sliding up the back of her thighs. Large and warm, causing her to tremble with anticipation.

She kisses him, and it's not urgent like before. It's...

_Rightness. Logan and Veronica. Us. Like his mouth was created to be kissed by mine. Like my body was designed to be touched by his hands._

_Why do I fight this so hard?_

Veronica's fingers are clutching his hair and she's rocking against his erection. Dipping and rising. Creating friction. Creating a tingling in her core. Exactly like she had all of those years ago.

He reaches under her panties, clutching her bare ass, guiding her rhythm.

"I couldn't get it out of my head for months," she admits when his mouth travels down to her neck, and across her collar bone. "I'd lie awake at night remembering."

_Still do, sometimes. Which is probably what drew me here tonight._

Logan pauses in his inspection of her cleavage, and glances up at her face. "Did you touch yourself?"

She almost pushes him away, still remembering the shaming she'd received from her ex, Michael, when he'd found her vibrator, and his meltdown over not being  _'man enough for her'_.

But Logan had given her her first one. Had made it seem so normal that she'd thought nothing of hearing a buzzing in Parker's room that night. He would understand.

"Yes…" she exhales.

Logan groans and drags her hard against his erection. He curls the fingers of his other hand around her right dress strap, slowly tugging it off her shoulder. "I thought of that night too when I…took care of myself. I wonder if we ever did it at the same time."

"Like an X-rated version of staring at the same stars?"

"Hard R. NC-17 at the most." They both gasp as she rocks harder against him. "Funny. I wasn't your boyfriend during those months."

_But you were always on my mind. Don't you know that?_

She stares into his eyes and sees that he does know. Maybe he always has.

Her chest constricts with emotion, and she kisses him again – because it's preferable to being seen that way. Known that way.

Logan pushes the second strap off her shoulder, and she pulls away from his mouth long enough to wiggle her arms out of the straps. He shimmies the stretchy material down until her breasts are exposed to the warm night air.

"I had a feeling you were braless tonight."

"Was it obvious?"

His right thumb skims over a nipple. "Only to me." He leans in, taking it gently between his teeth and running his tongue over it.

"FUCK!"

His eyes shoot up to meet hers, and he very deliberately, circles the nipple with his tongue, holding her gaze.

She shudders with pleasure, and he smiles, before moving his mouth to her other breast – teasing and sucking until she's painfully hard. The hand clutching her ass slides between her legs, two fingers lingering at her entrance, before spreading the wetness to her clit. She gasps and a rush of heat surges through her, as he rubs small circles on her flesh.

"Didn't you mention something about a quickie?" she asks in a shaky voice, reaching down and cupping his erection through his pants.

Logan hisses. "Sounds like something I might have said. No foreplay?"

"Not enough time." Veronica desperately works at his belt, pulling the leather away from the prong, and then popping the button on his jeans. The zipper is easier, and she's freeing him from black silk and he's in her hands.

Now it's his turn to gasp. His eyes close and he grinds upward.

"Condom…?"

Logan pulls out his wallet. "Last one." He rips the packet open and rolls it on with efficiency.

She tries not to let that bother her. With the exception of Joe, her other sexual partners had been a little more clumsy with the condoms.

_You knew it the first time. This is nothing new._

Suddenly, Logan is lifting her off his lap and sliding out from under her. He sets her back down, and – without his body in the way - she now has an unencumbered view.

The car is tilting, and the ground is a million miles away and her heart is in her throat.

"Logan! You're going to tip us out of this fucking thing." She clutches the black metal rail with a death grip.

He's behind her, his lips against her ear as he tugs her hips higher. "Impossible."

Nimble fingers push her panties halfway down, and his knees are on the outside of hers. The gondola tips nearly horizontal for a moment, and she's not sure if she's on the verge of screaming or coming.

Logan's positions his cock at her entrance, and god, she wants to push back onto it, but that'll only rock the car harder. So she stays very still and waits.

"Open your eyes."

"No."

"You're not afraid of heights."

"Am now."

"Open them."

She follows his instructions and tiny hairs lift on the back of her neck – whether from the view or the drag of Logan's teeth across her bare shoulder, she's not sure.

"Keep them open," Logan says, and pushes himself inside.

They both sigh with relief.

The car rocks as he moves in and out, and she white knuckles the rail.

"Good?" he asks.

"Mmm Hmmm." He fills her so completely.

He pulls her slightly away from the seat so that he can slide a hand up the front of her thigh.

"Just feel the adrenaline." He pushes her hair over her right shoulder and presses his face into the back her neck.

"Don't wanna."

"Feel it," he insists, adjusting his angle.

His thrusts are speeding up, and he's hitting that spot inside her on the way in. On the way out. She cries out and tightens around him.

After all those hot summer months in his penthouse – months where he'd treated her pleasure as his religion – Logan could write an instruction manual on her G-Spot.

"There was this blonde once. God she was fucking gorgeous." His lips are tracing the sensitive skin behind her left ear.

He hits that spot going in. He hits it pulling out.

"And we're in my truck one night. Arguing. Can't remember what it was about. Something stupid, I'm sure." His voice is husky. Almost as sexy as what he's doing to her body.

In. Out.

"And then suddenly, she's leaning over and unzipping my pants, and wrapping her mouth around me."

In. Out.

"And I'm flying down the freeway at over 80 miles per hour. And my heart is in my throat. I'm sure I'm going to crash. I'm sure I'm going to drift into another lane and get run down by a semi or something. And I'm sure I'm going to die."

In. Out.

"Sex and adrenaline. I have NEVER come so hard in my entire life."

"I remember," she gasps.

"Oh, was that you?"

"Fucker."

"You love me."

Veronica stares at the ground and Logan moves faster and faster. He's tugging her hips back now to meet him halfway.

Her pulse is thumping in her neck, her heart beating out of her chest, and she can't breathe. She's terrified and more turned on than ever, and he keeps hitting that spot, and his fingers are stroking her and she's clenching tight around him.

She doesn't come. She explodes.

Her eyes close, and her back bows, and she's gulping for air, thrumming with pleasure from her head to her toes.

* * *

When she comes back to reality, she's straddling his lap again, still spasming in aftershocks around him, and she has no idea how he managed the position change without her noticing.

"Oh my fucking God."

"You can just call me Logan," he whispers with his patented smirk, and she smacks him on the shoulder.

She's languid and refreshed. And not only because she'd just experienced what was probably the best orgasm of her life.

For the first time in months, her fear had been reasonable and quantifiable – rocking gondola with only a short railing to hold them in, 136 feet to the ground. Risk of tipping and falling and going splat on the pavement. She'd experienced it, acknowledged it, and conquered it.

So unlike the fear she's experienced since that first murder. The fear of the unknown. The fear of being watched. Possibly stalked. Fear of the next strike.

She almost thanks him, but he would just take it wrong and attribute it to his (considerable) sexual skills.

Violate all my love that I'm missing

He pushes up into her to remind her they're not done, and she lets out a little whine. "God! Give me a second. I think you fried half my brain cells."

He laughs, his lips thrumming against the hollow of her throat, and she cups the back of his neck with her hand, allowing her head to drop back.

Logan holds her steady, driving slowly up into her until she catches her breath and her hips begin moving of their own volition.

He licks a hot stripe up her neck and then pulls her mouth back to his.

The Garbage song is still blaring from the sound system, and when she matches her rhythm to it, Logan relinquishes control, allowing his hands to wander.

**I would die for you**

Veronica's fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt, and she lets out a groan of frustration.

"What?" He whispers, confused.

"I want to feel your skin. Why didn't you wear a button-down?"

**I would kill for you**

Logan laughs and leans back enough so that he can tug the shirt over his head.

"Fuck!" Veronica says, her fingers skimming over the hard planes of his chest. "You're perfect."

"I'm yours."

"Shut up."

**I will steal for you**

Logan is staring at her in adoration, and once again, it occurs to her. This is Logan six years later. Here they are together, and nothing has changed. He still knows her.

She loves when he looks at her this way. She loves his liquid brown eyes. She loves his cocky smirk.

She loves...him.

[](http://imgur.com/2BSq969)

**I'd do time for you**

She shakes herself out of it. "Will you cut that out?"

"Cut what out?"

"Trying to make love to me." She rolls her eyes. "This is just sex, Logan."

His eyebrows lower in annoyance. "Will  _you_  cut it out?"

"What?"

"Trying to minimize what we are to each other."

**I would wait for you**

She's in no mood for arguing. Can't even explain why she snapped at him. He's not the problem.

_My response to him is._ _How I keep finding myself wanting to believe._

She kisses him hard to shut him up, and increases the speed of her hips.

**I'd make room for you**

Logan's fingers travel from the small of her back, slowly up her spine, tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck and tugging her head back.

**I'd sail ships for you**

Veronica whimpers at his rough treatment. Cries out when his tongue locates her nipple, flicking and swirling at it.

**To be close to you**

He sucks it into his mouth and her core throbs in answer.

**To be a part of you**

Her rhythm becomes more urgent, and Logan's fingers slide between their bodies, working her clit.

**'Cause I believe in you**

Veronica's breathing is labored, and her energy is flagging, and Logan lifts his hips to meet her halfway.

**I believe in you**

They're pounding each other now, bodies slapping together.

**I would die for you**

He pinches her clit, and Veronica falls apart. Waves of pleasure spread from the point of contact, and she feels Logan come. Literally  _feels_  it as he throbs inside her, setting off another orgasm in her. She falls completely, thoroughly, apart.

* * *

She's cradled across his lap, and his chin rests on her head as his fingers stroke her bare upper back, making her drowsy.

"No napping, Veronica." He whispers and kisses the top of her hair. "We don't have that much time."

_Carny Bob could never come back for all I care. Just send up the occasional meal, and I'm good._

She's content in his arms. Isn't ready for reality to set in.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah. I'm perfect." She pulls back to look at his face – his beautiful, loving, face – and her throat constricts.

_Why do you still love me? What did I ever do to deserve your devotion for all these years?_

She aches to articulate the thought, but it wouldn't be fair, so she lowers her eyes. Looks at Logan's bear wedged in the corner of the seat, which is actually kind of cute.

He tilts her chin back up. "We should try this in a bed next time."

Veronica exhales.  _And here's where it gets ugly._

She slides off his lap, righting her dress and underwear. "There isn't going to be a next time."

For his part, Logan appears more skeptical than surprised as he pulls his sweater back over his head. "We're good together, Veronica. How could you not want this?"

She digs through her purse, dumping out a fresh pack of AAA batteries and handing the small brown paper bag it came in to Logan for disposing of his condom.

_What the hell? Why not just be honest with him?_

"Just because something is pleasurable – just because it makes me feel…"  _Alive. Electrified. Like a real fucking person._  "...good...doesn't mean it's healthy for me."

Logan zips up his jeans. "Au contraire, Veronica. Dr. Oz says that people who experience 200 orgasms a year live six years longer."

_That only means I should stock up on batteries next time I go to Costco._

"You know what I mean, Logan. I do want this. If it was just  _this_." She gestures to her body and his. "Sex and touching and cuddling and naps, I would sign up for a lifetime membership."

He lifts a brow. "You make it sound like a health club or something."

"Well…there's red tape and fine print and all kinds of hidden fees."

"Plus I give a mean rub down."

"That you do." She snuggles up against his side. "What I don't want is all the heartache that comes with it. Mistrust and suspicion and neediness. I'm just not equipped to deal with that stuff right now. I don't want a relationship."

"I can do casual." He glances down; speaks in a small voice. "…whatever you want..."

Veronica flashes him a sad little smile. "No you can't. Not with me. We're all or nothing.

"Is there somebody you'd...rather?"

"No! There is nobody I'd rather," she says – slow and deliberate, the emphasis on nobody.

_There never has been._

He nods, and glances over his shoulder at the ground, a significant chill in his demeanor.

_Great. He's hurt._

"It has nothing to do with you. It's a decision I made a long time ago."

"Well maybe it's time to reevaluate your choices." He concentrates on smoothing out one of his sleeves.

Veronica sighs and moves to straddle his lap again. Forcing him to look at her. "The last thing I want to do is hurt you. It was irresponsible of me to allow this to happen – today and yesterday. I got caught up the…just being around you makes me…"

_Kind of happy. Sort of._

He quirks an eyebrow at her. "I'm a grown man, Veronica. I did have a say in it."

"But I'm not being fair to you."

"How about you let me worry about myself." Logan leans in, brushing his lips against hers, and she opens for him, tilting her head to deepen the kiss.

She's dizzy and a little bit dazed when he pulls away.

"You were saying?" he asks with a smirk.

She pauses to get her bearings. "You know that line 'It's not you, it's me'? Well, in this case, it's actually true. I'm a fucking mess."

"Over that case you mentioned?"

She considers the question. "Yes. That's a lot of it, but I was like this even before that started. I'm simply a terrible girlfriend. I make my boyfriends miserable."

He opens his mouth to speak, but she holds up a hand, stopping him. "Yes, even you, Logan. Especially you."

"Will I be allowed to speak for myself, or will you be doing all my thinking for me tonight?"

She kisses him softly – both in apology and because she wants to. "I have this pattern I keep repeating over and over again. I never realized it, until…"

_…until Dr. Unser pointed it out._

Logan's eyes soften and he cups the back of her nedk with one giant hand. "What kind of pattern?"

She counts out her points on her fingers. "Meet nice guy. Pretend to be a nice girl. Move him in. Turn a blind eye to his flaws. Never fight. Never raise my voice. Miss all the warning signs that the relationship is in trouble until it implodes all around me. Because I work too damn much and they hold everything in. Rinse. Repeat."

He gives her a knowing glance, and she knows he's thinking about Duncan Kane.

Veronica sighs. "I've just been burned too many times. They always say when you're knocked off a horse to brush yourself off and get back in the saddle. But what if I don't want to? What if I'd rather just find another mode of transportation?"

"Like what? A unicycle?"

"Sure. Why not? At least if I crash, I'm only hurting myself."

Logan closes his eyes and exhales softly, a faint smile curling up the corner of his lips.

"What?"

His opens his eyes again. "I could see where that pattern might drive you away from dating."

_Well, what do you know? He's seeing reason._

"Except…you're missing one important detail."

_Or not._  "What detail?"

"I'm the exception."

She tilts her head and motions for him to go on.

Now he's the one counting off points on his fingers. "I'm not a nice guy and I don't want you to be a nice girl. You're prickly and I love you that way. I've never tried to hide my flaws, and you've never ignored them. Neither one of us ever held things in. We fought passionately and made up even more passionately." He ducks his face to ensure she can't escape his gaze. "We would have gotten it right eventually. I just know it."

It's hard to swallow. She wants to be with him. She wants to throw caution to the wind and battle her demons, and Just. Be. With. Him.

She knows she can't be.

"You just don't know when to quit." Veronica shakes her head in amusement.

"You never liked me as a quitter. So I dropped that habit."

Suddenly, the ride turns back on with a loud hum. Veronica jumps off his lap, smoothing out her dress, and moving to the opposite side of the gondola.

Logan smiles at her, and she can't help smile back.

He's beautiful and irresistible, and she knows now she needs to finish up the Cook case, and get the hell out of Neptune before she loses her mind and decides to give him chance number 47.

Their car stops at the bottom, and the carny leers as he unlatches their door. "Did you find your...fugitive?"

"I did, in fact," Veronica says icily. "He was apprehended in the parking lot. Thank you for your concern."

* * *

They walk down the midway together, Logan pausing to dispose of the paper bag in a tall trash can overflowing with cups and wrappers and food containers.

"Well..." he says, coming to a stop near the almost blindingly flashing lights of the  _'Test Your Strength'_  game. "I'd love to stalk you the rest of the night, but I need to go change into my tuxedo." He gestures to his body. "Have to look my best when I'm sold off like a high-class call girl."

Veronica smirks. "Where'd you get the idea you're high class?"

"Five dollar whore?"

"Better. Well…have a great time." She says, eyes already searching the vicinity for a restroom where she can clean herself up before meeting Mac at the auction.

"Hey!" His voice snaps her back to attention. "Give me a proper goodbye." Logan's hands cup her cheeks, and when he lowers his mouth to hers in a deep, but gentle kiss, her arms automatically move around his neck. Prolonging the kiss.

"I'll see you soon," he says when he finally pulls away. One more peck on her lips and he leaves.

She watches him walk away.  _Did I put that skip in his step?_

_I need to get the fuck out of Neptune. Now._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ShanghaiLily for betaing the first two POVs. Any errors/issues in the third one are all on me.
> 
> This was just a happy little interlude before the story starts ramping up. Next up: Bachelor's Auction - which will be a chapter all to itself.


	8. Episode 2/Part 4 The Neptune Philanthropic Society Presents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picks up at the Neptunalia after Veronica separates from Logan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All music mentioned in this story can be found on the following 8tracks playlist. 
> 
> http://8tracks.com/silverlining2k6/neptune-california
> 
>  
> 
> Reminder: Veronica Mars Movie is NOT considered canon for this story. It was plotted out two years before the movie. Therefore, Gia, Luke and other characters keep their show characterization rather than the new details we'd learned in the movie. Luke is not a Senator's son. Gia is relatively happy. I did sneak in one *tiny* thing from the movie, because I couldn't resist.

**Weevil**

Fun Street originates from the Midway at the center of the fairgrounds, meanders through the thrill ride area, past the beer gardens, around Kiddie Land, and dead-ends at the Main Stage - an amphitheater-style venue built into a hill, with wide grassy terraces perfect for spreading out blankets for summer concerts. 

Weevil’s been here all day, supervising crews of volunteers in the hot August sun. The runway has been erected, jutting out from the center of the stage, and thirty round banquet tables have been arranged around it and up onto the two lowest terraces. 

The heavy lifting is finished, and he steals five minutes to slip away to one of the dressing rooms to change into nicer clothing – a black suit with a crisp white button down. No tie. A fresh application of deodorant and a splash of cold water on his face, and he heads out to do a final inspection.

Upon his return, he finds that Madison and her gang have swept in to cover the tables with off-white formal table linens and fancy centerpieces made up of candles and greenery. It looks like a wedding reception to him, and he’s fairly certain the horny women attending tonight won't really care whether they're sitting or standing, but then again, he's never claimed to understand the way rich people think.

_The Philanthropic Society has a whole warehouse full of this junk laying around anyway. Might as well get some use out of it._

Sound check is successful. The lighting is rigged and calibrated, and Weevil needs a beer. He eyes the fancy bar on the South wall, but he’s worked hard all day and is in no mood for wine tonight. 

_Twenty minutes until show time. That should give me just enough time to slip away to that beer garden._

"Weevil." The voice issues from fourteen evenly spaced speakers. "Need your help for a second, man."

He blows out a frustrated breath. _So much for that beer. How do I let myself get dragged into these things?_

_DJ Arrrgh_ – AKA Vincent “Butters” Clemmons – still tends to dress like a pirate pimp, but he has a reputation for being the best DJ-for-hire in Neptune. 

_Now if we can just get him working those lights._ Weevil sighs and jogs up the two steps to the control booth. 

For the next several minutes, he coaches Butters on the complicated lighting system. 

Onstage, Casey Gant's girlfriend – a beautiful redhead with wild curls and a turquoise wrap dress – speaks to them through her headset. “What now, boys?” 

"Okay Marjorie, walk to the end of the runway," Weevil's says into the DJ mic. 

He demonstrates to Butters how to make the spotlights track the woman as she follows his instructions, and makes him repeat the process four more times to be sure. 

A chirp from his cell notifies him of an incoming text message, and he rolls his eyes at the content. “The Mayor wants to change his music. Again.”

“No. Absolutely not. The deadline was last week. You can’t just change things up at the last minute. I’ve prepared for this. We’ve had a dress rehearsal. I’ve set up—“ Butters’ voice rises and his face begins to flush.

“I’ll let you tell him that.” Weevil chuckles and shrugs. “He’s grabbing his mp3 player from his car and he’ll be here in ten minutes.”

Butters rubs his brow as if to ward off a headache, muttering, “What’s wrong with Marvin Gaye, anyway? Can’t go wrong with the classics.”

Light gleaming off golden hair catches Weevil's eye. 

_Veronica Mars._

_Speaking of the classics… Shit!_

Weevil had been hoping against hope that she would change her mind about attending. 

_And her timing couldn’t be any worse._ He glances at his watch. _Ten minutes to convince her to leave before Logan sees her._

Of course, they might run into each other eventually. Neptune’s a small town, and it won’t take long for Veronica to figure out who’s running the asylum. But he’s counting on Veronica’s tendency to avoid what she doesn't want to face. 

_But once Logan learns she’s back…_ Weevil shudders, well familiar with how single-minded the mayor can be when he wants something. _And he’s never wanted anything more than Veronica._

Maybe it’s inevitable – round 22 of that doomed relationship from hell. 

He loves both those idiots, but they’re Just. Not. Good. for each other. She’ll take off again, and Logan will turn emo and fall apart. And he’s seen enough of that shit to last a lifetime. 

She stands just inside the main entrance in a dangerous black dress he hopes Logan _never_ has to see. On either side of her, green satin draped booths hug the inner wall. To the right, that snooty bitch, Pam, is set up to distribute the electronic auction paddles, and to the left, Madison takes pre-orders for the 2014 Bachelor calendar. 

Weevil inhales as the two women lock eyes, holding the breath for several tense moments until they both look away as if by mutual agreement. 

_Thank God. I’m too damn exhausted to have to break up a girl fight tonight._

Veronica catches his attention, gives a small wave, and starts making her way over to the control booth. 

He has to admit, it was great seeing her at dinner the other night. His high school crush has long-since burned out, replaced by a genuine warmth and affection. In some ways, she’s still the same ballsy wisecracker she’s always been, but there’s something different about her. A weariness he hasn’t seen in her since that period during senior year when she was obsessing over those ‘Ahoy Mateys’ tapes. 

He snickers, remembering the popular radio show, and Logan’s record-breaking streak as Cock of the Walk.

_Look how far you’ve come, Echolls. Now you’re merely Cock of the Poker Game._

Thanks to Veronica, Weevil was one of the few people who knew the true identities of Captain Crunk – _may he_ _rest in peace –_ and Imitation Crab (who at this moment, is still sulking over the proposed music switch). 

He stands, moving to the booth’s open doorway and bracing both palms against the wooden frame, mentally preparing arguments to convince her to leave. He won’t mention Logan, of course. Nobody likes being managed – least of all Veronica Mars. Rather, he’ll focus on how Wallace is a grown man, and she’ll only be cramping his style. Scaring away the good ones. 

“Hey,” she says as she draws near, smiling and tilting her head as if a mere seven _days_ have passed, instead of years.

_Well if you want to play it that way…_

His eyes sweep her body – head to toe and back up again. _Damn, woman!_ It’s more for nostalgia’s sake than any overt sexual interest, but he can’t deny he approves. She’s filled out a bit since high school in all the right places. He returns her “Hey” with a lopsided grin of his own. 

Before he has a chance to launch into his spiel, Wallace sneaks up from behind, throwing an arm around Veronica’s shoulders. “Whatcha doin?”

_Well there goes that argument._

Veronica makes a startled noise and presses a hand to her heart. She takes a step back to get a look at her best friend. "Damn, Papa Bear. Keep looking this good, and I'll bid for you myself."

"And I haven't even changed into my tuxedo yet." Wallace wiggles a large garment bag, and shakes a finger at her. "And don't even think about it. Don't ruin this for me, girl."

She sighs and turns to Weevil. "You're looking pretty sharp, yourself. How's it going?" 

"Just finished calibrating the lights." He glances back to Butters. "Any more questions?"

"No, I think I've got it down."

"Good." Weevil hops down from the booth, bending his knees to absorb the shock of the concrete. "Why are you so early?" he asks Veronica, pulling her in for a loose one-armed hug. 

Her perfume tugs at memories buried deep in his subconscious, and he forcibly ejects them from his mind. He has a good life now. 

_And I never stood a chance, anyway._

"Oh, I've been here all evening. Wanted to get an early start on some deep-fried everything."

Butters' voice echoes through the speakers. "All good, Marjorie. Thanks." He moves into the open doorway Weevil just vacated. "Hey, Veronica, welcome back.”

"Hey! How’s it going...” she pauses, as if searching her mind for the name. “...Butters?"

"Vincent," he corrects, "Vincent Clemmons. Nobody's called me by that name since high school."

_Except every single person who knows you. Face it, you’re not kicking that name any more than I’m kicking Weevil._

"Heard how you punched out Madison Sinclair yesterday,” the DJ continues, making a bob and weave boxing gesture. “Over Logan Echolls?"

"Punched out Madison?” Veronica’s mouth slackens. “I did _not_ punch Madison, or even lay a finger on her. And it _wasn't_ over _him_ , anyway."

Butters glances at the sky as if replaying a conversation in his head. "Maybe the exact words I heard were _'she knocked Madison on her ass'_."

"That didn't happen, either.” Veronica shakes her head, exasperated. “She tripped. We argued, and her heel caught in a parking lot rut. Where'd you hear about that anyway?"

"This is Neptune." Butters reminds her in a _shouldn’t-you-know-that-by-now_ tone. "You remember the gossip mill, right?"

Veronica turns to the other two men and she raises an eyebrow in question. 

Weevil merely nods curtly. Yes, he’s heard the story. 

"I heard about it," Wallace admits. "And you really should let go of the past."

The dangerous gleam in Veronica’s narrowed eyes makes Weevil glad he's not on the receiving end of that stare. 

"And _why exactly_ am I letting the past go again?"

“You know…I’ve been collaborating with Madison a lot for this auction,” Wallace drops his eyes and shrugs. "She's been really nice lately. She’s different now." 

"You ever think she was only being nice so she can suck up to Logan?" Veronica asks, her voice harsh and clipped. "You're _buddies_ with him now, right?"

"Well that would be a lost cause, since he refuses to have any interaction with her whatsoever." Wallace leans forward to speak, his mouth stretching into a teasing grin. "And I may be mistaken, but I do believe I just heard you say the forbidden L word."

"Ha. Ha.” Veronica rolls her eyes. “Speaking of Logan, I can't believe you guys didn't warn me that my ex is the County Supervisor." She punches Wallace lightly on the bicep.

Wallace's grin only widens. "Ima let Weevil field that discussion. I have to head to the dressing room to get changed." He chuckles as he walks away. 

Weevil wishes he'd taken the opportunity to go get a beer. _Too late now._ His eyes sweep the venue, taking in the other volunteers and a few attendees come early. No sign of Logan yet. 

The bar on the north wall is open for business, but he's not holding his breath. 

"Well?" Veronica's voice snaps him back. 

He shrugs. “I hope you can interrogate and walk at the same time, because I need a drink.”

He almost hopes she won't follow. Hanging out with Veronica Mars again can only end up getting him in trouble. 

Of course, she falls in at his side, remaining silent as they walk the short distance to the bar. 

“Yo!” Weevil rests his elbows on the smooth, lacquered surface, and leans forward to catch the eye of the bartender – a Mexican kid with a shell necklace and an athletic build. _Is he even old enough to serve alcohol?_ “Don’t suppose you have any beer back there?”

“Sorry, man. Only wine tonight,” the kid approaches, making an apologetic gesture. “By request of the Philanthropic Society.” If his tone isn’t indicator enough, the faint lift of his upper lip leaves no doubt over his opinion of the 09ers. 

_Shit! Why do they insist on punishing me?_

He glances over his shoulder at V. “What’re you having?” 

“Pinot Grigio.” She answers, sidling up next to him at the bar.

“Make it two,” he tells the bartender, holding up a pair of fingers. 

Veronica is studying the boy intently as he pours the pale liquid into a clear plastic cup - not surprising, with the kid's movie-star good looks. He has the sort of face that would be typecast to play the fiery Latin Lover stereotype. 

“You uh…into cradle robbing these days?” Weevil asks, gesturing with his chin. “Or you still can’t resist a guy in pukka shells?” 

She gives him an amused eye roll, but doesn’t answer. 

Their drinks appear in front of them, and Weevil tosses a crisp twenty on the bar. 

Veronica touches the bartender’s arm before he can walk away. “You’re Brandon, right? We met earlier today. At Hearst. Veronica Mars.”

“I remember,” the guy answers, his posture telegraphing a sort of wariness. 

Veronica smiles her _let-me-put-you-at-ease_ smile, which typically means the recipient, is in for a world of unease. “I didn’t really expect on anybody to volunteer information in front of their teammates today, but if you’ve thought of anything since, that might help your coach, you could always tell me now.”

_Ahhh...so she's working the Terrance Cook case. Should have known when she mentioned Hearst._

“I don’t know anything.”

Weevil sips at his wine – crisp and dry, and most importantly, wet. Not beer, but not too bad either. 

“You must have your suspicions, though.” Veronica leans forward lowering her voice to a gossipy tone. “You seem like a smart guy. Anybody…I don’t know…setting off your Spidey Senses?”

“Nope,” the bartender picks up Weevil’s twenty, and turns away, moving towards the cash register.

He makes it two steps when Veronica calls out, a predatory gleam in her eyes, “How about Riley Woods?”

Brandon freezes, his shoulders appearing to go rigid. When he turns back, his eyes flash with anger. “Riley had nothing to do with it! He played his heart out during that game!” he practically spits at her. “He plays his heart out every game.”

“Okay,” Veronica answers with a satisfied little smile. “I believe you.”

About to launch into tirade, the boy pauses to process her words. “You believe me?” 

“I really do.” Veronica lays on the sincerity. “I don’t think you _or_ Riley had anything to do with it.”

The bartender's anger seems to deflate with a sigh, his shoulders relaxing and his face slackening. 

Weevil can relate all too well. Of course he would be defensive. The brown guy is always suspect #1. _But who the hell is Riley, and why are you so defensive over him?_

Veronica sets down her drink, and leans forward, capturing the bartender’s gaze. “So who _wasn’t_ playing their heart out during that game?”

Brandon sighs and rubs at the back of his neck. “I don’t know, Enbom maybe? Or Bakeman? Definitely not Riley.”

Weevil can only shake his head at how easily Veronica has played this kid.

_I miss the game._

He loves the calm and stability in his life since he’s gone legit, but he can’t deny he misses the adrenaline spikes now and then. 

_Well, 90% legit._

_Or 85%._

_Okay fine, 80%._

“How about Luke Haldeman?” Veronica asks.

Brandon considers the question. “I don’t think so. Doesn’t seem like him.”

“Are you aware of any money troubles Luke might be having?”

“Not really,” the boy answers, turning to walk away. He turns back a moment later. “Actually, now that you mention it…”

Veronica motions for him to continue. 

“A few of us drove with him once to pick up some food for a team celebration. Some pizza and wings and stuff. When he tried to pay, his credit card was declined. So was his second card. We ended up having to pool our money.”

“How did he handle that?” 

“He was pretty embarrassed, but it was no big deal.”

“Do you remember any of your team members showing an unusual interest in Luke’s money problems?”

“No. Sorry. That’s all I’ve got.” Brandon shrugs and moves to the cash register.

Veronica turns back to Weevil. “And to answer your earlier question, no, I’m _not_ into robbing the cradle. I prefer men my own age, or older.” She speaks in an unnecessarily loud voice – as if addressing Brandon, rather than himself. 

“Hey, no judgment here, V.” Weevil smirks and puts up both hands. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

He nearly cringes at his own words, aware of his own hypocrisy, and hopes they won’t end up being thrown back in his face later when – if – he tries to convince her to stay away from Logan. 

Brandon approaches with his change and Weevil motions for him to keep it. The boy gives a small wave of thanks and moves away. 

Veronica slides her drink down to the end of the bar where she can stare out over the railing at the fair-goers. Lights from the tallest rides - the Ferris Wheel, The Zipper, The Giant Swings - are visible from here, and the squeals of happy children can still be heard from the nearby Kiddie Land. 

Approximately one-story below, groups of teenagers engage in the typical mating rituals. Weevil thinks he recognizes his second-cousin Maria on a nearby wooden bench with that 09er boy she has wrapped around her finger. The one she's been forbidden to see, since that night she didn’t come home.

"PCHers - the sequel?" Veronica points with her thumb at the gang, approaching from the north - all leather and forced swagger. 

"Yeah," Weevil says, "PCH 2 - Electric Boogaloo."

"That tall one. In the middle. S'that the new leader?"

Weevil nods, a deep heaviness in his chest. "That's Rafael. Rafael Toombs."

Veronica's eyes widen in surprise. 

"Yep. Younger brother of Felix and Gustavio."

"Gustavio?" She tilts her head in question.

"Reaper Gus. My predecessor in the PCH. Got on the wrong side of the Fitzpatricks." He exhales and swallows around the lump in his throat. "But Gus was a player. This kid?" He gestures vaguely. "He talks a good game, but he's not ready. He's way out of his league." 

Veronica still has that way of seeing through to the heart of the matter. "And you feel responsible for him."

Weevil shrugs off the question. He barely knows Rafael. Growing up, the younger kids had been beneath their notice, but Mrs. Toombs had been like family to him. 

_And no mother should ever have to bury three sons._

“So you still involved in bookmaking?” Veronica changes the subject, to his relief. 

“Last I checked, you’re still a cop, and sports gambling is illegal in California.”

“Come on.” She presses his arm. “I’m all but fired by now. And I would never come after you for that.”

“No.” He looks her in the eyes so she’ll know he’s being straight with her. “Not for years, now.”

She nods and sips at her wine, eyes wandering aimlessly. 

“You’re asking because you want to know if any unusual bets were made for that Hearst rivalry game, right?” Her lips curl up at the corners, and he continues. “Like somebody betting a large amount of money against an undefeated team. How am I doing?”

“Got it in one.” 

“I’m not involved in that stuff anymore, but I know which people to speak to. I’ll ask around. See if I can come up with anything.”

“Thank you!” Veronica gives him a spontaneous hug. Light and not particularly enthusiastic, but his eyes scan the area nevertheless, searching out one particular face.

“So moving back to where we left off earlier…” Veronica begins, “Why didn’t you guys warn me about Logan’s new career?”

_I am not up for this conversation._

Weevil resists the urge to run a hand over his face. His eyes drift over her shoulder, where their mutual friend is approaching. “Mac’s here.”

Veronica spins around, inhales with a kind of joy he can’t remember ever witnessing from her before, and rushes to embrace her friend. They linger for several moments moment before separating. 

"You look absolutely gorgeous," Veronica says, stepping back to take in Mac’s black rose-printed dress. “Love the hair." 

“Thanks! So do you! _Interesting_ dress choice. And by interesting, I mean HOT!” Mac says, and then kisses Weevil’s cheek in greeting. "What are you two up to?"

Veronica angles her chin at him. "I was just trying to get to the bottom of why Weevil and Wallace allowed me to get blindsided."

"Hey. Wallace made it very clear before you arrived at the restaurant, that Logan’s name was off-limits, and had been for years. By _your_ orders." Weevil answers holding up both hands in defense. "And what do you mean by blindsided? Have you actually _seen_ Logan?"

A bubble of laughter flares from Mac, and Veronica shoots her a warning glance. 

"Yeah. Funny story.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Went to get the mayor's signature, and found the old ex-boyfriend behind the desk."

"Just freaking wonderful." He blows out a cheekful of air and wipes a hand over his face.

"How do you think I felt?" She pauses, an idea occurring to her. "Wait. Is that why you tried to discourage me from attending this auction? You were afraid I'd run into Logan."

"Something like that," he admits, smoothing out his pant legs. "Just do me a favor V, and be careful with him."

Veronica laughs off the warning. "Trust me. I can hold my own just fine against Logan Echolls."

Weevil toes at the ground. "Maybe it's not you that I'm worried about."

* * *

**Veronica**

Nobody speaks for several seconds. 

_Did I just hear that correctly?_

"What's that supposed to mean?" Veronica finally asks. 

Weevil sighs. "Nothing. Forget I said anything."

She knows she should do exactly that - forget he'd said anything. But she wouldn't be Veronica Mars if she let things go that easily. "Are you asking me to stay away from Logan?" She keeps her tone deceptively light and sunny. Completely unaffected. 

He glances over his shoulder and then back again, meeting her eyes directly. "Would it do any good if I did?"

She opens her mouth - to insist that _of course_ she's going to stay away from Logan - but the words just won't come out. 

"That's what I thought." Weevil shakes his head. "You two are like a pair of magnets - _explosive_ magnets – that take out half a city block whenever they slam into each other."

She doesn't know how to respond without outright lying. Because he's dead on. Wasn't today and yesterday enough to convince her that she _can't_ resist Logan's pull? Isn't that why she'd come to the decision a mere half hour ago to solve the Cook case and then get the hell out of Dodge? 

"Just..." he begins, an ' _I-can't-believe-I'm-actually-saying-this'_ expression on his face. "...don't break his heart, V."

Her jaw slackens, as if Weevil had just told her he was thinking of taking up interpretive dance. She glances as Mac for a reaction, but her friend isn’t surprised. 

Veronica swirls and sniffs her wine before taking a sip. How could this be the same guy who’d always been so gung-ho to step in-between her and Logan at the slightest provocation? Who’d nattered on about Logan’s supposed mistreatment of Lilly. Who’d urged her to cube Logan’s car for fun.

_Weevil Navarro just asked ME not to break LOGAN’s heart?_

Veronica reaches out and pinches Weevil on the jaw line. 

“Ouch! What the hell was that for?”

“Just checking for a latex mask. You’re sounding an awful lot like Dick Casablancas right now.”

He screws up his nose, insulted. “And here I thought I had nothing in common with that idiot. Listen V, I’m not judging what went on in the past. We both know what a fuck-up he was…” 

Veronica’s hackles lower. Slightly.

“…But Logan’s in a good place now. And more importantly, he’s _doing_ good things. For Neptune. _Nobody_ wants to see the return of Emo Boy.” 

Veronica’s face remains impassive – he can’t know about the Ferris Wheel. Or the desk. “I have no plans to get back together with Logan. Why do you care anyway?” 

He removes his hat, lifting his eyes as if searching for guidance from the sky. "Things have changed since you left. Logan's..." His words degenerate into a garbled mumble. 

"Speak up.” She lifts a hand to her ear. “I didn't hear that."

Weevil squirms like a little kid caught with his hands in the cookie jar. Still mumbling, he repeats, “I said, Logan is my boy.”

Veronica glances a question at Mac, who shrugs and says, “Bromance,” in an _isn’t-it-romantic?_ tone. 

_Logan and Weevil are friends._

She almost laughs - because Weevil looks So. Damn. Uncomfortable. As if she'd found his stash of Britney CD's, or something. 

He crosses his arms over his chest, and lifts his chin. Daring her to ridicule him. And a dozen jokes do spring to mind – slumber parties, nail painting, and girl talk - but she finds her curiosity outweighing her defensiveness. 

"But…you two hated each other.”

"Well, when you drag somebody out of their own puke enough times, you kinda start feeling responsible for them. Ya know?"

Veronica’s chest tightens painfully. A part of her has always been prepared – tensed, actually – for a 3:00 AM phone call telling her Logan's self-destructive streak has gotten him killed. Whether from alcohol poisoning, or pissing somebody off enough to shoot, stab or beat him to death. Assuming he didn’t kill himself first.

_But he's all grown up and mature. I can relax now. Right?_

Above their heads, music kicks in at a low volume - Ellie Goulding’s _‘Lights’_ \- and Veronica’s eyes jump to the nearest speaker tower before turning back to her friends. "So bar crawls, huh? Auspicious beginnings for a friendship.”

Weevil sighs heavily. “You should know better than anyone how friendships can grow from unusual circumstances. Didn’t _ours_ begin with you asking me to prom and begging me to whip out my junk at the lunch table?” His lips curl up in a smirk. “Logan asked me to prom once, too. What is it with you two?”

_Logan and Weevil._

_Of course. After all the times I had to keep them separated when I could have used them both, and they waited until I left to become bros._

She hasn't maintained contact with Weevil, and he owes her no loyalty. Once he'd been her soldier. Objective in a way Logan never could be. But now? If forced to choose between her and Logan, she suspects his loyalties wouldn't lie with her. 

And it hurts. A little.

Not a _rip-my-heart-out-now_ kind of hurt, but a dull _should-have-been-a-better-friend_ sort of ache. 

"I don't intend to get back together with Logan," she says in a quiet voice, hoping to placate him. “I’m choosing to remain single for the foreseeable future.” 

"Intentions don’t matter, V. Not with you two.” He drains the remainder of his wine from the plastic cup and signals for another, adding as an afterthought, “Plus, your name is on that list of his. It's practically a given."

_List? Of the best things in life?_

"Unless you’re referring to my kiss, I’m not following.” At his confused expression, she moves on. “What list?”

He seems to fumble for the correct words, before saying, "You know. Those lists. Like _'visit Rome', 'parachute out of a plane', 'run for public office'_. That kind of thing."

"A bucket list?" She can’t quite keep the incredulity from her voice. 

He snaps his fingers. "Yeah, that's what he calls it. Once something goes on that list, I pretty much consider it done."

_Nice to know I have a say in the matter._

"Are you saying Logan is ruthless?" This development would not be surprising for Logan 2004, but seems inconsistent with the man she's witnessed since being back.

"No, that would be your other ex. I'd describe Logan more as..."

"Determined," Mac says. "Very determined."

“Has anybody – besides you – actually seen this list?"

Mac holds up her hand. "I've glimpsed it. I don't know exactly what's on it, but I could see that a lot has been crossed off.” 

Overcome with curiosity, she turns to Weevil. "What else is on this list? Running for mayor?"

Weevil nods, "Yeah, that's on there."

"What else?"

He shakes his head. "Nope. You'll have to ask him that. If he wants you to know, he'll show you." 

Veronica sips at her wine, trying to process this information. "That just doesn't sound like Logan. He’s not a list maker. He doesn’t even keep a calendar. Just relies on that scary brain of his.”

Weevil shrugs as if it’s no skin off his back whether she believes him or not, and light bounces off the large diamond stud in his ear. 

_Then again, he's the fucking mayor. Not an insignificant accomplishment._

"So he's goal oriented," she muses aloud. 

Mac touches her arm. “If it helps, I’m the one who suggested the bucket list idea to him. Years ago. He needed a... _touchstone_ – something to focus all that crazy intensity on.” She lowers her voice to a stage-whisper. “He was kind of spiraling.”

Veronica’s heart swells, and she’s never loved Mac more. She’d probably saved Logan’s life, and doesn’t even realize it. 

_Because a spiraling Logan…_ She shivers, refusing to complete the thought. 

“I am so happy you did,” Veronica says, with every ounce of sincerity she can convey.

Mac opens her mouth to respond, but pauses, glancing past Veronica at somebody approaching. 

“Veronica Mars!” a familiar voice calls out. Gia Goodman strides purposely towards them, pulling a hesitant Jackie Cook behind her.

"Hello, Gia," Veronica gives her a strained smile and an uncomfortable finger wave. “Jackie." 

_Crap._ With the current turmoil in the Cook family, bidding on a date with Joe Random Stranger probably wouldn’t be high on Jackie’s list of priorities.

_She’s here for Wallace. And he’s going to be a wreck when he learns she’s back._

_Can I stop her? Should I stop her?_

They’re both adults now, and Jackie does seem to have her shit together. On the other hand, Wallace’s devastation after graduation when he’d returned from New York had almost ripped Veronica's heart out. Months had passed before he’d dated again, and over a year before he’d gotten serious about anybody. She can’t let Jackie break his heart again.

_Fuck. I sound like Weevil now._

Gia's perfume smells of sweet cherry-candy, as she pulls Veronica into an awkward hug. “I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw Jackie Cook by the Midway, and now you’re back too! Is it time for our reunion or something?"

"Nope. Not until 2016."

“Oh," Gia says, "I haven’t seen you since Lucky Dohanic pulled a gun on us at lunch that day.”

_Well, that wasn't actually the last time, but we won't talk about the “study session” where I broke into your father’s email._

"How long have you been back?" Gia's glittery golden dress hugs her figure and reveals a triangle of skin angling from her left waist to her stomach. 

"Um...today is my third day back."

Gia pauses before speaking, tilting her head. "Your voice..." she trails off. “…where have I heard it lately?”

_Oh hell!_ Veronica shakes her head, trying to catch her eye, but Gia doesn't notice. She stares off into space, apparently comparing Veronica's voice to an internal database. 

"Gia, wait!" Veronica says, holding up both hands, at the exact moment Gia inhales sharply and covers her mouth with one hand. She laughs, pointing one slender finger at Veronica. 

"You're the one! The one Logan was sexing up in his office yesterday! You yelled at me!" 

"GIA!"

"Relax!” Gia laughs and waves off Veronica’s protest. “The mayor’s not going to lose any votes from _these_ guys.” She gestures at Mac and Weevil. 

Veronica risks a glance at her other friends. Mac and Jackie both wear bemused grins, but Weevil is fixing her his patented death glare. 

_Open up ground, and swallow me whole._

"This is perfect!" Gia chatters on. "I am so happy for you and Logan! Tell me all about your reunion. Was it romantic? Did you come home to be with him?"

"Gia!" Veronica holds up a hand to stop her. "We’re not…what happened yesterday was an accident.”

Mac snickers, and Veronica scowls, daring her to make any ‘ _accidentally fell on his penis’_ jokes. 

_Come on, Veronica. It is kind of funny._

She turns away to hide her own amusement. The wind shifts and the aroma of roasted nuts wafts up on the breeze. Veronica glances over the railing and something below catches her attention. 

"Speaking of Logan..." she points to where he’s crouched in a circle of light from a streetlight, giving a bear hug to a small girl of seven or eight with long golden blonde pigtails. "Who's that kid he's with?"

Gia steps up to the railing. "Oh...that's little Lilly Kane. Duncan's daughter with Meg Manning. It's a shame I only met her the day of the bus crash – Meg, not Lilly, of course. She seemed super nice, and everybody says—“

"Gia," Veronica interrupts. "Are you saying that Duncan Kane is here tonight?"

"Duncan? No way! Not if Logan is talking to Lilly."

_Good._

She visually scans the area, and sure enough, just outside the circle of light, the Ice Queen herself, Celeste Kane, waits with an armful of stuffed animals, her eyes firmly riveted on Veronica. 

Veronica shivers as if somebody walked over her grave and turns back to Gia, shifting her body as a dismissive message to Celeste. "Why not?"

"Oh, Logan and Duncan don't speak anymore."

"Doesn’t have anything to do with me, does it?”

Gia shakes her head. "No, they were close when Duncan first got back. Logan was like an uncle to that little girl. Then Duncan got really weird, and some business deal went bad, and they stopped talking to each other."

_Wonder if I can fix that? Or would I just make it worse?_

Veronica’s last encounter with Duncan – a year and a half earlier – had been awkward, to say the least.   


He’d shown up at the door of her San Diego apartment unannounced three days after returning to America. Waving away the circumstances of his return as “complicated”, Duncan had tagged along on her dinner date with her then-boyfriend Pete. She’d been happy to see him at first, eager to catch up. But there’d been a haunted quality to him that had made her uncomfortable, and she’d detected no warmth in his eyes.

It wasn’t until her boyfriend had excused himself to go to the restroom, that Duncan made it clear that he expected them to pick up exactly where they’d left off. She’d tried to be polite while turning him down – _couldn’t he tell she was in a relationship?_ – but he’d spent the remainder of the dinner sulking, and barely said goodbye before driving off after dinner.

She hadn’t heard from him since.

Now, curious about Duncan’s estrangement from Logan, she turns to Weevil. "Do you know what went down between them?"

"Even if I did, I'd tell you to ask Logan about it." 

"Ask me about what?" Logan materializes like a ghost at her side still holding his prize bear and a large zippered garment bag.

Veronica nearly jumps out of her skin. “Nothing important, and will you stop sneaking on me? Or at least wear a bell?”

“Sorry.”

Weevil eyes her with a knowing glance.

_What? Why go the direct route when I can be nosy instead?_ She resists the urge to do something childish. Like sticking her tongue out at him.

“Weevs,” Logan says, smirking.

“Mayor,” Weevil returns with enough sarcasm to infer it’s an inside thing. 

“You get my text?” Logan asks. “What did Butters say?” 

“He turned purple and had an aneurysm. I told him if he doesn’t like it, to take it up with you.”

“Logan Echolls!” Jackie says in a flirtatious tone. “Well didn’t you grow up handsome?” 

Logan takes in the other people of the group for the first time. “Jackie Cook?” He sounds genuinely happy to see her, as he hands his garment bag to Weevil and pulls her into a tight hug. “Hot as ever.” 

Veronica recognizes that old burning sensation in her chest, and breathes out through her teeth. 

For a period of time during senior year – between Homecoming and Wallace’s return from Chicago – Veronica had suspected Logan and Jackie were fucking around. She wasn’t sure where he found the time - between his trophy wife and the ingénue – but when it came to Logan, _‘endurance’_ was most definitely the watchword. 

Veronica turns away, looking out over the venue. People are arriving now in small to medium groups – mostly women, aged between 25 and 50. Trust fund 09ers and rich divorcees. A long line stretches out behind the booth where Pam Ackerman distributes electronic auction paddles, and a smaller line is queued up to pre-order bachelor calendars from Madison. 

Logan releases Jackie from his embrace, and moves to kiss Mac on the cheek like a dear friend. 

He rolls his eyes and shuffles his feet like an impatient ten year old as Gia straightens the lay of his black sweater, ridiculing his ability to dress himself. “What is this?” She points to a pink spot on his neck. “Lip gloss?” 

Gia’s focus switches to Veronica. “You’ll need to be more careful when he’s making public appearances,” she chastises, and Veronica feels like a naughty schoolgirl. “Or at least wear a clear gloss.” 

A choked laugh comes from Mac, but she’s composed when Veronica glances at her. 

Logan tries to interrupt, but Gia rolls right over him. “And _you_ should know better,” she sighs and then softens. “But I am so happy you two have found your way back to each other. It’s like a crazy love story or something. It’s like…Twilight!” 

Veronica’s eyebrows nearly leap off her face. _Um…no. Not even close._ “As I mentioned earlier Gia, Logan and I are not back together.”

“Your loss…” Gia huffs – or maybe it was _‘your gloss’_. Everyone cringes when she licks her thumb and rubs away the smudge – except for Logan, whose eyes beg for Veronica to make it stop. 

“So…Jackie,” Logan says when Gia finishes her grooming. “Does Wallace know you’re in town?”

“No…” Jackie draws out the word, staring guiltily at her feet. “I’m still getting around to that.”

Logan meets Veronica’s eyes with a worried expression, and it takes her a moment to realize he’s commiserating. He’s as concerned as she is over how Wallace will react to Jackie’s presence. 

_Of course. Why make friends of his own, when he can just take all of mine?_

"Well guys…I'd love to stick around and chat, but I have to go make myself even _more_ handsome," Logan snatches his garment bag from Weevil’s hand, and sighs dramatically. "It's almost cruel to the other guys."

"Having to share a dressing room with your ego?" Weevil asks. 

"As if I'd share a dressing room. Headliner, baby!" Logan’s fingers twist around Veronica’s and he tugs her back two steps, lowering his voice and ducking his head to flash the puppy dog eyes. "It’s not too late to change your mind about bidding on me. If begging won't work, how about bribery?”

“Bribery? What do you have that I want?”

His mouth spreads into a wide, lecherous grin, causing her to laugh softly. “I don’t know, I’m in a better position to have those even number days removed from the calendar now.” He steps even closer. “I’ll make it mandatory by law for all evildoers to submit to your questioning. Or how about a citywide Veronica Mars Day? A parade in your honor? Or…” He waggles his eyebrows promising incentives of a more carnal nature. 

"Not a chance," Veronica chuckles and pushes him away. "I'm here for Wallace and Wallace alone."

"Fine.” He exhales dramatically. “But when I'm stuck fighting off the advances of some horny 09er tomorrow, it'll be all your fault." 

"As if you'd ever fight off a horny female."

"Oh, but I will. I’m taken.” He holds up and wiggles the ‘girlfriend’ bear she’d won for him in an attempt at humor, but the light is gone from his eyes, and she knows him well enough to see she's hurt his feelings. 

_He'll be even more hurt when he realizes the horny 09er he’ll have to fight off is Madison._

She exhales, preparing to apologize - or to at least make it clear she doesn't actually think that way about him. “Logan—“

"Echolls!" Butters jogs up to the group, interrupting her. "If you still want to change your music, we're running out of time." 

“Music. Right.” Logan produces an mp3 player from his pocket, handing it to Butters. “The song is already queued up. Just transfer it to your…whatever.” He makes a twirling gesture with his long fingers, that’s probably supposed to signify _‘gadgetry’_ , but comes across more like a magician about to pull a rabbit out of his hat.

Butters nods. “You’ll come get this after the show?”

“Just give it to Weevs. He can get it back to me.” Logan doesn't take the opportunity to flirt with Veronica again before leaving. Doesn’t even say goodbye. Just turns and leaves. 

_Wonderful, he's pouting._

_Maybe I went too far questioning his ability to resist random hookups._

“Hi, Mac,” Butters says, heart in his eyes. “It’s been a while.” 

Mac awkwardly hugs the man, giving him a one-two tap on the back before pulling away. "Great seeing you, but we should probably find a table before they all fill up."

"I put a reserved sign on a table earlier.” Weevil leans in and points to an empty table at the foot of the runway on the right-hand side - second in location only to the one in the center. “Only fair after all the work I put in today.”

"Well...I promised my friend Theresa I'd sit with her," Gia points to a redhead at a nearby table. "She’s going to be broken hearted when she learns that Logan is off the market again.”

Veronica doesn’t waste her breath trying to correct her this time. 

“But first,” Gia continues. “I’d better make sure Logan knows how to tie his bow tie. Great seeing you guys. We'll have to catch up soon! Toodles!" She flits away. 

Mac exhales in what sounds like relief. "Coming?" She links her arm with Veronica's. 

Veronica turns to Jackie, smiling and holding out her other arm. “Join us?”

Jackie returns the smile, and links arms. 

* * *

**Veronica**

“Somebody getting married?” Veronica eyes the reserved table with a raised eyebrow. The formal table linen, centerpiece and staggered grouping of glowing ecru candles are overkill – to say the least. 

“The Philanthropic Society,” Mac over-annunciates in an affected “hoity-toity” voice. “Must project taste and elegance at all times.”

“Anybody remember to tell the bachelors that?” Veronica takes a runway-facing seat between Mac and Jackie. 

The turnout is high, with all the lower tables full, and the upper ones going quickly. Veronica experiences a twinge of guilt for her uncharitable thoughts from earlier. Sure, some of these women are on the prowl, but most are just groups of girlfriends together for a fun night out. In fact, many are dressed more conservatively than she is. 

Their table is on the left side of the runway at the very end. Directly across, on the opposite side, sits Madison, Pam Ackerman, Shelly Pomroy, and one of Caitlin’s blonde minions from yesterday. Between them, Mrs. Caldwell and several other society grande dames preside over the table at the foot of the runway. 

“So…” Veronica turns to the woman on her left. “…I’m assuming you’re here for Wallace?”

"Yeah," Jackie’s speaks in a soft voice, and Veronica detects no guile in her expression. “I found an auction flyer at The Hut this afternoon. I don’t blame you for not mentioning it.”

"He's not going to be happy," Veronica warns. "He was pretty optimistic about meeting somebody new tonight."

Jackie nods. “I understand.”

"I should stop you. I _could_ stop you." 

"I know. But I hope you won't. I need to make amends to Wallace. For the lies I told him."

Veronica sighs her capitulation. "Break his heart again, and I'll come after you." 

"I wouldn't expect anything less. I remember how protective you are."

"Damn right I am! Who wants to see their closest friend get his heart broken?"

"Not Weevil, apparently," Mac says with an ironic tilt to her head. 

Veronica closes her mouth, and then switches to a different topic. "Okay, Ms. Mackenzie. Jackie and I are here for Wallace. Why are you here? Have your eye on some lucky bachelor?"

"Hardly," she snorts.

"Well?"

"This entire experience is humiliating, but I'm better off explaining before you come to the wrong conclusion.” Mac sighs and looks down at her hands, mumbling, “I'm here to bid on Dick."

An unladylike snort of laughter bursts from Veronica. “I’m not sure that service is included in the purchase price. But if you ask nicely…?”

“Honey, you don’t need to pay for it,” Jackie adds, “The way you’re working that dress, the guys will be lining up.”

“They should be paying _you_ ,” Veronica says, and then snickers, covering her mouth. “...which would make you a hooker. Although…if that were a life choice you were interested in, I’m sure you would be a raving success.” 

“Enough!” Mac throws up her hands with a laugh. “I meant Dick with a _big_ D! Wait…” Her cheeks turn an adorable shade of pink. “That came out wrong. _Capital_ D. I have no personal knowledge of whether it’s big or little. Nor do I ever want to find out.”

Veronica's eyes widen and she drains the last of her wine. "Please tell me you're not romantically interested in Dick Casablancas." The light breeze shifts, bringing with it the scent of melted candle wax and old lady perfume. 

"God, no!" Mac says, and then sighs dejectedly. "The office took up a collection, and I'm the sacrificial lamb."

"I have to hear this," Jackie says. “You work for Dick Casablancas?” 

"Yes.” She nods. “And my mission is to keep Gia from winning him in the auction. They're in an _‘Off again’_ phase, and nobody at work wants them getting back together."

"I always thought Dick and Gia were kind of cute together." Jackie says. "Back in school. Although, I could never tell if they were actually dating or just flirting. Why would your office care who Dick dates?"

"That's the problem. They're _too_ cute. Like infantile-cute. It interferes with productivity when the figurehead CEO is chasing his girlfriend through the cubicle maze. Or making out with her on the copy machine.”

Veronica rolls her eyes, remembering senior year and the way Gia giggled at all of Dick’s lame jokes.

_Well that explains the telephone conversation I overheard yesterday. I really need to have a talk with that girl._

Mac continues. “Last month, I caught them in the break room, pointing and laughing at a foil-wrapped sandwich making sparks in the microwave."

"So the people are rising up against Dia?” Jackie asks. “Or is it Gick?"

"Well, they're mostly called GiaBlanca, but essentially, yes. They need to be kept apart for the sake of everybody’s sanity."

“So that’s why you kept laughing when Gia was lecturing me and Logan on decorum.” 

Mac makes an _I-rest-my-case_ gesture. “Strangely enough, she’s all business at the mayor’s office.”

At the table to their right, several women in their late thirties/early forties follow Weevil with lustful eyes as he approaches with a full bottle of wine and a small stack of cups.

“Just in time. I’m surprised they let you take that bottle.” Veronica says wiggling her empty cup. She lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “What would the Philanthropic Society say?” 

“They would gasp and clutch their pearls, but I don’t give a fuck,” He answers, “And nobody _let_ me. I snagged the bottle when your bartender friend wasn’t looking and left a fifty on the bar.” 

Weevil takes a seat to Mac’s right, pulling a multi-tool from his pocket, and making short work of the cork. He fills four cups, and slides one to each of them. 

Veronica leans forward and offers Weevil a flirty grin. “So why aren’t you walking that runway tonight?” 

“You know better than that.”

She lowers her voice. “I know that there’s a table-full of women to your right who would love to bid on a good looking guy like you. You clean up well.”

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Give me a break.” 

“Just sayin’, I don’t see a ring on that finger, Mr. Navarro.”

Before the conversation can continue, the lights go out, flooding the area with darkness. 

* * *

Muted conversations and nervous laughter issues from the nearby tables, until the stage lights come on, illuminating a beautiful redhead with thick wild curls.

“I know her…”

"Marjorie Marston," Mac leans over, whispering, "I’ve gotten to know her, and she's a wonderful human being." 

"I met her years ago at Hearst, when I went undercover as a Zeta Theta Beta pledge. I really liked her – although I’m sure I left a pretty rotten impression."

Mac cringes. “That was the case with the wacky tobaccy grow room, right?”

“Right. I got their den mother fired. Their _suffering-from-debilitating-cancer_ den mother. Who’d needed her job for the insurance benefits.”

It’s no surprise to Veronica that Marjorie Marston excels at public speaking. She uses the entire stage, welcoming the assembled attendees to the 2013 Neptune Bachelor’s Auction and giving a brief history of the event, from its conception in the 1990’s to last year’s record proceeds. Her curls glow like blazing flames under the spotlights as she explains the rules. “Sorry ladies, only one bachelor per bidder. After successfully winning a bid, your electronic paddles will become disabled to allow other bidders to have a chance.”

Veronica picks up and examines Jackie’s auction paddle. Shaped like an elongated calculator, the small digital readout at the top reads “$0.00” in glowing red numbers above a gray numeric keypad. The large BID button at the bottom looks as if it would be way too easy to hit on accident. On the back is a red light she assumes goes on when the user bids. 

Marjorie explains the division of proceeds – 50% going to the Neptune Food Bank, and the remaining 50% going to each bachelor’s charity of choice.

“I’d like to offer a special thanks to Madison Sinclair, whose tireless work made this event possible.”

The applause is tepid, and Jackie makes a little grunt of distaste. Veronica’s attention switches to her old nemesis, on the opposite side of the runway. She’s twisting a silver bracelet on her wrist, and looking as if she’d rather be anywhere else but on the receiving end of Pam Ackerman’s gossipy whispering. 

“If you haven’t had a chance to order your 2014 Neptune Bachelors calendar, Maria will be taking orders until the end of the auction.” Marjorie gestures to the booth Madison had been sitting at when Veronica arrived. “We’d like to thank Echo Photography Studios for so generously donating their time and energy, and we’ve prepared a little behind-the-scenes video to help you get to know this year’s crop of bachelors.”

The spotlight goes out and the giant screen turns on, accompanied by the opening notes of ‘It’s Raining Men’.

**_Hi - Hi! We're your Weather Girls_ **

**_And have we got news for you_ **

**_Get ready, all you lonely girls_ **

**_And leave those umbrellas at home._ **

Veronica literally groans aloud at the cheesy predictability of the song choice, but the people nearby begin table dancing, and she has to admit, the mood is infectious. Her lips curl up in an involuntary smile.

_Am I actually having fun?_

On the jumbo screen, the bachelors - separately and in groups – are shown being photographed at a handful of recognizable Neptune locations. 

The video spotlights each bachelor. A section on the left side of the screen – white bullet points on a black background – details names, occupations, and charity of choice, as the men are photographed in a variety of outfits (formal, career, casual, and beach wear). 

Veronica hides her face in her hands at the sight of one particularly hairy bachelor in a tiny cheetah print Speedo. When she peeks between her fingers, she realizes it's Vinnie Van Lowe, and nearly throws up in her mouth. 

People are squealing, though, so apparently not everyone is repelled, but Veronica fears the image may cause recurring nightmares. 

When Wallace appears on screen, Jackie inhales sharply, pressing both hands to her mouth. "I always imagine him like the last time I saw him. I never expected him to be so...grown up," she says, her eyes telegraphing that she likes what she sees. Very very much. 

"Yep, he's a full-scale hottie now." 

"He certainly is."

Onscreen, Wallace – in a dove gray shirt and matching tie - leans over a desk to help a student…stands on the sidelines clapping in his coach’s jersey…sits on a short brick wall in jeans and an untucked striped button-up…poses on the beach in long swimming trunks…and in front of a white backdrop in a sharp black tuxedo, identified as Prada in the onscreen caption. 

_Prada? When did Wallace start wearing Prada?_

The video moves on to the next bachelor, and Veronica finds she's impatient to get to Logan's spotlight. She's caught glimpses of him in the introductory footage and group shots, but she wants to see more.

The crowd gets excited for several of the bachelors, Casey Gant and Dick Casablancas in particular, but it becomes loudest when it's Logan's turn.

Veronica’s eyes widen and she takes a deep swallow of wine. “Did the entire city of Neptune forget how much they hated him while I was gone?”

“Pretty much,” Mac answers. “Believe it or not, he’s a pretty good mayor. But this…” She sweeps her hand out at the crowd, “…is a combination of several factors. You have the son of a movie star, and the women who still think they can touch stardom through him. You have the women looking for a politician husband to manage. To be ‘ _the woman behind the man’_. Personally, I think they should just run for office themselves, but what do I know? You have ones looking for the status he could bring them…”

“And the ones who just recognize a fine-ass man when they see him,” Jackie adds. 

Onscreen, Logan is in his office in a charcoal gray three-piece suit that would make Harvey Specter proud. He’s photographed in his chair pretending to be busy and sitting on his desk – _that_ desk – arms wide in a ‘this-is-my-domain’ gesture. He takes off his jacket, leaving the vest and crimson tie, and rolling up the sleeves on his pinstriped white shirt.

He flips through some manila folders, and then pensively stares out the window, bracing his arms on the frame. 

_Nice!_

Next, Logan is photographed in a bar setting, in dark jeans and a snug black Henley that accentuates his…everything. He sits on a barstool with a pool stick, and then is shown bent over the pool table to take a shot. 

The background switches to all-white and Logan poses looking like James Bond in a Tom Ford tuxedo. 

_Damn!_

Veronica bites her lip to hold back a whimper at the sight of Logan in the sand wearing blue and white board shorts. His body could have been chiseled by Michelangelo. She's run her hands over that body hundreds of times, but there are new dips and planes and hollows she wishes she could explore and memorize without any consequences.

The Weather Girls singing about getting _'absolutely soaking wet_ ' isn't helping her resolve any.

"God bless mother nature," she drawls, not caring who hears, and Jackie grins.

"I need to get my hands on one of those bachelor calendars."

"Why?" Mac asks. "You could have the real thing. Take your own pictures." _'If you know what I mean'_ is left unsaid. 

"Logic. Who needs it?" 

Mac smiles knowingly.

Onscreen, Logan and Wallace are on the beach, leaning against a giant boulder. Somebody tells a joke, causing them both to laugh - deep belly laughs - and Veronica's heart swells with emotion. 

_Maybe I should skip the calendar and track down the photographer. See if he'll sell to me directly. Shots of both of them, of course._

The song ends, and the video goes black - white letters crediting Echo Photography Studios for the footage and April Dennis for the video editing.

_April Dennis? Where do I know that name?_

The stage lights turn back on and Marjorie now stands on a small platform at stage right with a small man in a brown suit, she introduces as Silas Griffin, the auctioneer. 

* * *

"Neptune!" Marjorie yells out. "Are you ready to meet your bachelors?" 

Screams and cheers erupt from the crowd. 

"Without further ado, let me introduce your first bachelor. Neptune's own sheriff, Vinnie Van Lowe!"

A head shot displays on the screen, while - at the opening horn notes of Snow's "Informer" - Vinnie bursts onto the stage. 

The auctioneer starts the bidding at $500.

“Informer?” Jackie asks, wrinkling her nose as if something smells bad.

“Guess he thought he might give people ideas if he used _‘I Shot the Sheriff’_ ,” Veronica answers. "Is that Kevin Bacon's tuxedo from Footloose?"

"No," Jackie answers. "Kevin's was unusual, but timeless. This is..." she waves a hand at Vinnie. "Maître d chic. He looks like a caterer or something."

The video screen reminds the audience that Vinnie’s charity is the Sheriff’s Athletic League. 

_Which a hundred bucks says Vinnie holds the purse strings._

Veronica can't contain her laughter as Vinnie swaggers down the runway, throwing his hands around like a white-boy rapper. Pointing, chopping, scratching the record, and something that looks like he's dealing a hand of poker. He lip synchs along with the song, but she's positive he's making up the words.

_Nobody actually knows the lyrics to this song._

"If you're lucky enough to win a date with Vinnie Van Lowe," Veronica speaks into an imaginary microphone, "Expect to be wined and dined with a romantic dinner for two. Made with love by his very own mother. Hope you like tuna casserole. Next up, he'll whisk you off to the romantic Kearny Mesa Bowling Lanes, where he'll treat you to dollar draft beers, while he bowls with his league."

Mac laughs, while Weevil covers his face with both hands and shakes his head. 

"If you hit it off, you might just get to see the back of his Sexy Times Van, followed days later by a unique keepsake video of your…” – air quotes – “…special moments together." She pauses for a moment. "For an extra $500, you’ll receive his assurances that the video will never be posted online. And antibiotics should take care of that other gift."

Red lights flash in the crowd and a digital readout above the auctioneer’s head displays the current bid at $725.

_People are actually bidding on this Bozo?_

Said Bozo is leaning down and high fiving those at tables closest to the runway. His smile slips as his eyes fall upon Veronica. She waves smugly, and his grin returns, even wider. He points at her with an _I'll-be-seeing-you-soon_ insinuation.

The bidding tops out at $950 and, rather than the _Peg-Bundy-aesthetic_ type Veronica expected, the winning bidder is a sedate looking woman who would look more at home in a boardroom.

_That's what I get for making assumptions. But still, I would pay $950 to get out of having to go on a date with him._

The second bachelor – a sexy fireman named Joshua Cardini – wears Calvin Klein, and a fire hose prop around his neck, as he aggressively walks the runway to The Cult’s “Fire Woman”. Onscreen, a multi-day date package for the winning bidder is listed out next to his photo: dinner at Basil’s, a tour of the Neptune fire house with a ride-along on a fire truck, and a gourmet gift basket from Capelli’s market. The cougars at the next table are consistent in their blue-collar preferences, as the tiny brunette with the pixie cut wins the bid for $1000. 

Scott Southerland – a good looking brain surgeon with blond hair and blue eyes – doesn’t seem to project much in the sense of life force, as he ambles down the runway to Kings of Leon’s “Use Somebody”. His date package includes: pickup in a stretch limousine, courtesy of Moonlight Limousine, hair and makeup at the exclusive Lefevre salon, followed by dinner and drinks at Centrifuge, and box seats at the Ballet. He goes to Pam Ackerman for $1300

“Vinnie didn’t have a date package,” Mac observes.

“He’s cheap as hell, and none of the sponsors want to be associated with him.”

The crowd likes Luke Haldeman, who walks the runway to Fall Out Boy's "My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark". He comes across as nervous and out of his element, but he grins when he notices Veronica, and lifts his eyebrows at her. 

As the bidding increases, he seems to loosen up, his steps becoming a bit bouncier. He adds in some fist pumps in time to the song’s beat. He goes for $1600 to a youngish girl with long dark hair and perfectly shaped eyebrows, who can expect an “Explore Neptune” gift basket from the Chamber of Commerce, dinner at Geraci’s, and club seats to next week’s Padres game.

_Wonder if any of that was actually paid for out of pocket, or if his sponsors donated all of it._

Patrick Maxwell, a gorgeous restaurateur is next. He'd caught Veronica's eye on the intro video, exuding both intelligence and a hint of danger. Months ago, she might have been tempted to bid on him and the six hour yacht cruise he’s offering. But now, too many conflicted feelings about Logan are swirling around in her head. Somebody far in the back wins the bid for $2000.

"Next up, Neptune High's assistant basketball coach, Wallace Fennel!"

Veronica laughs as Nelly's 'Hot in Herre' kicks in. “I see he's still hoping for that _‘nonstop-Nelly-video_ ’ life," she says. "It’s good to have dreams.”

Onscreen, Wallace’s portrait stands in profile, eyes crinkled with amusement. The girl lucky enough to win a date with her BFF can expect dinner at Café Bliss, 3 sessions of lessons at Cheek-to-Cheek Ballroom Dance Studio, and a night of dancing at Centrifuge to show off their new dancing skills. 

_Hundred bucks, Alicia helped him come up with that package._

Wallace’s grin is huge as he dances down the runway in his tuxedo. 

_My boy's got moves!_

Jackie appears to be overwhelmed with emotion. Her paddle lights up as she bids, and, when Wallace works his way next to their table at the end of the runway, her hand squeezes Veronica’s under the table. 

Wallace is really feeling his music – putting his entire body into it – and all attempts by Veronica to try to catch his attention are unsuccessful. 

He dances his way back towards the stage, and the bidding become heated between Jackie and two women on the opposite side of the runway. One of them drops out at $2000, and the second runs the bid up to $2500 before letting Jackie have it. 

“How far were you prepared to go?” Veronica asks

“Until I was the last one standing,” Jackie answers, with an elated smile. 

Julio Valentin owns the exotic car dealership in town. He struts the runway to Awolnation's "Sail" and Veronica wonders if Logan had considered this song. It would fit him. 

On the opposite side of the runway, Wallace approaches and crouches down next to Madison, holding up a hand so that she can hear him over the music. Madison nods and then points at Veronica's table, and Wallace stands, turning to see who he'll be taking out on Saturday night. 

It seems to take his brain a moment to catch up. At first, he smiles, obviously satisfied with Jackie's appearance. A moment later, the smile withers and his eyes become hard. He finally takes in Veronica’s presence at Jackie’s side, and she has to drop her eyes to escape the accusation in his gaze.

Rather than approaching, Wallace shakes his head and walks back the way he came. 

_Going to have to fix that._

Jackie swallows and exhales. "I was prepared for that reaction, but I'd hoped…" She nervously twists the small hand strap on her wristlet. 

"He'll get over it," Weevil says, standing to refill Jackie's cup and not even trying to conceal his purloined wine bottle. "Wallace can't hold a grudge." 

Veronica automatically checks if Madison is watching. She is, of course, but doesn't seem inclined to call security. Weevil refills the remaining cups and sits back down. 

Veronica takes a sip and turns to Jackie. "I agree. Just show him how sincerely you regret hurting him."

Jackie nods. "That's the plan."

Veronica digs her cell out of her purse and shoots off a quick text to Wallace. **I am so sorry. I gave her two days to tell you herself, before I did, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this.**

"Next up, Channel Five weatherman, Lars Sorenson!" Marjorie announces. 

Veronica and Jackie share a glance and snort with laughter, remembering their waitress days at Java the Hut. 

The person winning a date with Lars, will be invited to spend the weekend at the Neptune Film Festival – all meals and drinks included – followed up by a hot air balloon ride, where he’ll demonstrate his knowledge of the weather. 

"At least he doesn't have a microphone," Jackie says as the blond man attempts a painfully awkward strut to George Michael's "Faith". 

"Thank god for small miracles." Veronica sips her wine and wrinkles up her nose. "Surprised it's not Air Supply."

"I remember him from the Neptune Navigator news show with Meg Manning," Mac says, "But where does the Air Supply come in?"

"Lars here, used to bring his dates to The Hut for karaoke night"

"And then pout when he was upstaged by better singers," Jackie adds. "Hey. We should get coffee tomorrow morning. You guys available?"

Weevil begs off, saying he plans to sleep in, while Veronica and Mac agree to meet at The Hut at 10:00 AM the following morning. 

Lars goes for a respectable $2100 to somebody up by the bar.

Next up is Neptune's favorite veterinarian, Bronson Pope, still baby-faced in a Versace eco-vegan bamboo tuxedo. 

His song choice of "Who Let the Dogs Out" should be a guaranteed eye-roller, but he somehow makes it endearing. Then again, it might be the fact that he’s carrying a golden retriever puppy in his arms. 

Bronson works the runway with innate confidence, but not cockiness. 

His date package includes a zero-carbon footprint dinner, and a whole lot of hiking and biking in places Veronica doesn’t recognize. 

She leans over to Mac. "Tempted?"

Mac shrugs. "Compared to Dick Casablancas? Very tempted. But not really. He's a great guy, but unfortunately, once 'the eggplant' always 'the eggplant'." 

Veronica nods sagely. "I’ve dated a lot of eggplants. How did you end up getting stuck with Dick duty, anyway?" 

_God, everything I say about the guy comes out sounding like an innuendo._

Mac rolls her eyes. "Occasionally, I have the ability to make him behave like an adult. Very few people can claim that. Plus, I can be trusted not to fall for his so-called charm and sleep with him." 

Imagine Dragons' "Radioactive" plays while Casey Gant emerges from backstage. He’s still a very good looking man, but his trademark expression of studied boredom hasn't changed a bit since high school. 

His date package is robust, though. The winning bidder will receive airfare to LA, lodging at a luxury hotel, and will be escorted by Casey to the red carpet premiere of the new Conner Larkin film, “Terminal Vengeance”.

Mac leans in to speak. "Poor Marjorie probably can't bid on him, since she has hosting duties."

"Are they dating?"

"Yeah, pretty happily. How much would it suck seeing other women bid on your boyfriend?"

"I guess I'll know at the end of the show." Veronica mutters under her breath. 

Weevil raises an eyebrow, and Veronica hurries to clarify. "Ex-boyfriend! You know what I meant."

_Because together or apart, he will always be mine._

She exhales and shakes away the ridiculous thought. She really needs to start shutting down these possessive inclinations towards Logan. She'll be leaving town soon, anyway. 

A collective gasp goes up at a nearby table full of Veronica's former classmates, when Casey goes for $4400 - the highest of the night so far - to Darcy Nichols, his ex-girlfriend.

_Well, that’s gonna cause some drama._

Mac's employer is up next.

"Give it up for real estate mogul, Dick Casablancas!" Marjorie announces, and the crowd goes wild. 

Mac leans in again to speak. "Dick is kind of famous for his onstage antics."

The entire table groans at the opening notes of LMFAO's "Sexy and I Know It". Veronica points her finger at her mouth in a gagging gesture. "I hate this song." 

Dick bursts through the curtain accompanied by four backup dancers in silver bikinis. 

"Oh. My. God. Has he no shame?" Veronica meets Mac's eyes and they both snort.

Dick is an energetic dancer, and his thrusts and gyrations are choreographed to be in synch with his dancers.

The onscreen caption lists Dick's charity as the Neptune Waves Foundation, and his tuxedo designer is described as custom-made. His date package includes dinner at Taste, a $300 gift card to Victoria’s Secret, and three private surfing lessons. 

Dick bumps. Dick grinds. Dick stops in front of Veronica's table to do a body roll. And to sneak a peek down the front of her dress. She flips him off, and when he glances up to what face belongs with the cleavage in the low cut black dress, he smirks and says _"There goes Logan's balls."_ Or at least that's what she thinks he says - she's mostly reading lips. 

Dick dances his way back to the stage, pausing at the head of the runway long enough for his backup dancers to rip off his tuxedo, exposing a pair of shiny golden boxer briefs. 

"A tear-away?" Weevil exhales and lifts his eyes to the sky, but the crowd is going crazy. 

The bidding is escalating, and Veronica chooses to keep the "date with Dick" jokes on the inside in deference to Mac's predicament. 

Somebody in the crowd - who must be a Channing Tatum fan - begins chanting. More people join in, and soon, half the crowd is chanting: _Magic Dick! Magic Dick! Magic Dick!_

Mac's jaw slackens as if she's shell-shocked. 

_Poor girl. Has to be horrifying seeing your boss strutting his stuff in not much more than underwear, while the rest of the town loses their collective shit._

_Not to mention having to bid on a date with the guy._

Magic Dick struts back down the runway without his dancers. At the very end - right next to Veronica's table, he stops, turning his back to the audience. 

LMFAO sings: 

**_Wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle yeah._ **

**_Wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle, yeah._ **

Dick shakes his ass so fast, Veronica's afraid his remaining article of clothing is going to wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle right off his body. Yeah. "Is that twerking?" she asks?

"I don't think so," Mac says. "It's more like a shimmy."

Dick turns back to the audience, flashes a wide grin and a wink, and does a backflip. 

And a second one. 

And a third. Back to the stage.

When Veronica meets Mac's eyes again, she's laughing so hard she has to wipe away tears. "I think your boss missed his calling. If real estate doesn't work out for him, he could have a lucrative career as a stripping gymnast."

“We – the employees of Casablancas Inc. – can only dream.”  


The bidding is up to $3200 before it starts tapering off. Gia is fighting it out against a middle aged botoxed blonde. $3250...$3300...$3350....$3400...The blonde drops out at $3500. 

"Going once...Going twice..." 

Mac raises her paddle and pushes the BID button. 

At her nearby table, Gia scowls and bids $3600. Mac sighs and counters with $3650. The battle wages on until Gia finally bows out, and Mac wins herself a man-child for a bargain $7000. 

Dick jumps up and down like a boxer, and bounces over to the auctioneer, snatching the mic from his hand and shouting "Seven grand, baby! Beat that, Logan!"

Marjorie lets out a tight laugh as the auctioneer takes back his microphone. "I guess we're about to find out. Up next, our final bachelor. Your County Supervisor, better known as the Mayor of Neptune, Logan Echolls! 

The crowd roars with excitement, and as he's the last bachelor of the night, people from the outlying tables stand to move closer. 

_I don't want to see this. Why didn't I leave?_

The curtain opens just enough to reveal Logan leaning against an archway. 

_The calculated lean. That probably just bumped up his take by a grand._

He picks Veronica out of the crowd almost instantly, and his lips curl up. 

Loud guitar notes kick in, and she jolts.

_Garbage. Bad Boyfriend._

Veronica had been stupid (or in love) enough once to admit to him how that song sometimes played in her head when he entered a room. He'd argued that he was a very good boyfriend, but she could tell he'd been secretly delighted at the idea of having a theme song. 

_No wonder he changed his music at the last minute. He did it to get to me._

A strange woman with loud makeup and a dark Cleopatra-style wig squeezes her way to the foot of the runway, swaying to the music and staring at Logan as if she wanted to snatch him up and lock him in a creepy basement cage. The society matron she’d dislocated to usurp the space says something, and Cleopatra hisses at her like an angered cat. The woman scoots her chair away without another word. 

Logan doesn't dance. He doesn't strut. He's not comical or anxious or insecure. He's not bored or indifferent. 

Logan prowls. Like a panther – slow and predatory, his eyes locked on Veronica and that damnable smirk on his face. 

Veronica's pulse speeds up. She can almost feel his body heat from here. She can almost smell his skin. 

He’s impeccable in his tuxedo - black, with a shawl collar, and tailored to fit him like a glove. 

The jumbo screen identifies it as Tom Ford, and his charity as something called "Neptune Haven". 

_Wonder what that is._

Madison – or anybody rich enough to outbid her – will be receiving a full day’s spa treatment, followed by dinner at Taste, and a six-week session of culinary lessons from celebrity chef, Alfonzo Day. 

_Damn! How much did that package cost? And why do I suddenly have the urge to learn how to cook?_

At the end of the runway, Logan does a crossover spin, lifting his eyebrows at Veronica in a ' _how’s-that-for-smooth?'_ expression. 

Veronica smiles widely in response. 

She barely registers the bidding is up to $5000. $7000. $8000.

She wants him.

_I just had him. And it didn't cost me a dime._

_But I don't want anybody else to have him._

Her eyes jump to Madison on the opposite side of the runway, who looks away as if caught. She's not bidding, but why would she just yet? 

Cleopatra must have run out of money. She glowers dejectedly at the electronic paddle in her hands, pulls back as if to toss it, and then thinks better of it, shoving it in her bag. 

The bidding begins to taper off at around $9300, and the girls surrounding Madison begin whispering to her urgently. She sneaks a glance at Mrs. Caldwell – who’s staring at her in expectation – before sighing and raising her paddle. 

Veronica exhales. "Well, looks like Madison is sticking to her guns."

Jackie screws up her face in distaste. "Madison Sinclair? What is she doing now?"

"I ran into her yesterday, and she threatened to bid on Logan just to stick it to me. Not that I have any stake in Logan’s—“

Weevil interrupts. "You can't let her do that, V."

"I certainly can."

"No." He scoots back his chair enough that he can touch Veronica on the arm. "You don’t realize how Logan feels about her. This will kill him."

"He should have thought about that before he fucked her," Veronica says, and instantly regrets it. It's been six damn years. She can’t keep letting that get to her. 

"And he’s already suffered for that. That's kinda the point," Weevil continues. "He can barely stand to look at Madison. Even for this auction, Wallace had to play go-between so that Logan wouldn't have to personally interact with her."

Veronica follows Logan’s progress back to the stage with her eyes. "That's kind of...extreme." 

_And endearingly loyal. In a way._

"He says it's too painful to be around her, because every time he looks at her, he's reminded of the biggest mistake of his life." Weevil says quietly. "And for a guy to admit something like that…?" He shrugs. 

"I can't do anything about that." Veronica's steady voice does not betray the ache in her chest and the deep sense of loss she's experiencing. 

"Outbid her."

"Aren't you the one who wants me to stay away from Logan?"

"Yeah, but these are desperate measures."

"I just can't." She sighs and drops the unaffected act. “First, I can't give Madison the satisfaction. And second, I've made it very clear what I want from Logan. It would be cruel to lead him on and give him false hope."

Weevil shakes his head in disappointment. "No, what's cruel is leaving Logan to pay the consequences of _your_ squabble with Madison.”

She can’t argue with him there, so she turns back to watch the proceedings.

At $9000, only one woman – sitting at the table to their right – is still putting up a fight. Veronica's gut churns with nausea when she recognizes her as Monica something. The wife of Aaron Echolls' former agent. One of the three women he'd banged at some Halloween party a month before his stabbing.

_Poor Logan. Wasn't sharing Lilly and Kendall with his father bad enough?_

Onstage, Logan has put together what’s going on, and looks on in horror at the two women battling it out for his time and attention. 

_Why did I think I could handle this dispassionately?_

Like Jackie earlier, Veronica reaches for hands under the table, squeezing Jackie's with her left and Mac's with her right. "Whatever you do, do not let me bid." she hisses. 

"Kind of hard without a paddle, Veronica." Jackie reminds her.

Logan looks as if he's on the verge of vomiting, and Veronica's heart breaks a little more. Despite her decision to get away from Neptune, and his influence over her, it’s been a pretty perfect night, and she hates to see it end this way. 

**_Got something special for my Bad Boyfriend._ **

She makes a garbled exclamation and snatches Jackie’s paddle from the table, jabbing the big red button repeatedly. 

Nothing happens. 

“It’s disabled, Veronica. One bachelor per bidder, and Mac and I have both won.”

“If you consider that winning,” Mac mumbles, but she pushes the button on her own contraption anyway. 

Nothing happens. 

Veronica stands, eyes roaming the venue. The booth for auction paddles is vacant. One girl sitting on a stool by the exit collects the paddles as people leave. “I wonder if anybody left one behind on their table?”

“Not if they want their deposit refunded to their credit card,” Mac answers. 

Veronica drops heavily back into her chair.

Monica-what’s-her-name shows no signs of backing down as the bid jumps to $12,000, and Veronica can’t even decide which option is worse. 

_I mean…Madison…_

But the other woman had been a part of the culture and circumstances that drove Lynn Echolls’ to suicide. Had probably even pretended to be her friend, while sneaking off to spare bedrooms with her husband. 

And Logan is obviously thinking the same thing. He’s wearing that tortured expression he only ever brings out while speaking of his father. 

“We can’t let this happen,” she says.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Weevil responds. 

She stares at him for a long moment. “Okay, Madison will keep bidding up to $17,000. You should have enough time to sneak off and pull the fire alarm.”

Weevil doesn’t even hesitate, pushing back his chair, and rising to stand.

“Charity, Veronica,” Mac reminds her.

“Fuck!” Veronica grabs Weevil’s wrist to keep him from walking away. “She’s right. We can’t take that much money away from charity.” 

Weevil sighs, sitting back down and folding his hands over his chest. 

She glances around at the remaining attendees, searching for familiar faces. 

Gia’s table is empty. Everyone else around is a stranger – except those already sitting with Madison, who would hardly be willing to help. 

She even tries to wave over Cleopatra Crazy-Eyes – the exact kind of woman she’d come here to protect Wallace from – but the woman is lost in her own world, and wanders off towards the exit. 

Logan's eyes plead with her to do something. Anything. 

She raises her hand to bid, but the auctioneer ignores her. The entire system is rigged electronically, with the counter above the auctioneer’s head rising with each push of Madison’s button. 

_There’s nothing I can do!_

Veronica can't take it anymore. This song. And that boy. And these circumstances. It’s too much. 

“I have to get out of here,” she mumbles as she pushes back her chair. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow morning at Java.” 

She rushes to leave, feeling the weight of Logan's gaze on her shoulders the entire time. 

By the exit, she gives it one last try, but the volunteer insists that the paddles can’t be reactivated tonight. 

Turning back to Logan, Veronica catches his eyes and mouths the word “Sorry,” before ducking out the exit and into the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much the HappilyShanghaied/ShanghaiLily for her stellar beta work. 
> 
> The story of Logan x Weevil *will* be explained later.


	9. Episode 2/Part 5 Neptune's Daughters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously:  
> \- Veronica is hired to clear Terrence Cook's name for game fixing. She stops by Hearst to interview Luke Haldeman and the team. Later, an anonymous caller points a finger at Luke.  
> \- After promising Veronica that she'd tell Wallace herself that she's back, Jackie Cook bids on him in the Bachelor's Auction. He's not happy about it.  
> \- Mac bids on Dick to keep him from reuniting with Gia (and disrupting the office with their antics).  
> \- Although she's in love with somebody else, Madison backs herself into a corner and is stuck having to bid on a date with Logan.  
> \- Despite having a great evening with Logan, Veronica is not in the right head space for a relationship, and decides she find another city in which to start over. As she leaves the auction, the bidding is down to Madison and Monica Hadwin - one of the women Aaron cheated with before Lynn's death.

 

* * *

**Java the Hut**

 

An unintended consequence of fleeing Neptune six years ago had been leaving behind female friendship. Recently, the deficiency has become more glaring to Veronica.  

It’s not that she's actively rejected bonding attempts; there was just always something more pressing to worry about.

In her short time interning for the FBI, she'd caught the attention of Gerald Ryan – an agent renowned for his ability to spot talent. He'd discerned early on that, despite her intuition and natural born talent for solving problems, she was simply too much of a lone wolf for the Bureau.  He'd urged her to keep doing what she was doing - she'd already found her calling.  

But when news reached her of Logan's hospitalization and near-death at the hands of Gory Sorokin's goons, she'd been wracked with guilt, vowing never to return to Neptune or Mars Investigations. Agent Ryan had guided her to the SDPD – close enough to see her father at every possible opportunity, far enough to avoid temptation.  After her graduation from the Academy, he'd pulled the right strings to get her fast-tracked to detective, and she'd thrown herself into proving her merit.

Male instructors and recruits gave way to male trainers and supervisors and partners.

Her heavy caseload never left much time or energy for socializing, and most of the (living) women her job brought her into contact with, fell into one of two categories: suspects and witnesses.

She'd inherited Jules and Diane when she started dating Pete – their spoiled baby brother. For a time, their weekly Wednesday Happy Hours had been something she anticipated all week, but she'd lost them both in the break-up. They'd begged her to reconsider leaving him. She refused.

She's missed having girlfriends, so her eagerness to get to her coffee date with Mac and Jackie is hardly surprising.

It's a new start. An opportunity to prioritize what matters most.

_Except...that new life will have to be somewhere else – wherever I end up after leaving Neptune._

The thought mellows some of her enthusiasm.

Back in 2005, ten o'clock was the optimal time for meeting friends at Java the Hut on a Saturday – after the morning rush tapered off but before the brunch crowd started rolling in.   Hopefully, that's still the case.

Veronica hurries to the front entrance, already four minutes late.

The Hut's door swings open, and two little girls clutching iced-chocolate concoctions bounce out, followed by a scruffy man in green scrubs. He smiles, holding the door for her, and she thanks him as she rushes in.

She pauses inside the door while her eyes adjust from the bright morning sunlight to the moody interior.

The scents of burnt coffee and Shalimar perfume envelop her – the latter belonging to one of the four track-suited grandmothers blocking the entryway as they lean over to examine a cash register receipt.

"Excuse me."

Nobody moves – either they're hard of hearing, or they just don't care.

The dry-erase board lists _Today's Special_ as Chai Latte in neat, razor-sharp handwriting. _Yuck_. As a lifelong coffee devotee, she'd never been a fan of the spicy drink.

Veronica cranes her neck, scanning the room for her friends. There. Over near the counter, the girls sit in two of the three comfy red slip-covered chairs. An over-sized, white mug sits on the table in front of Jackie, while Mac sips from her cup.

"Excuse me," she repeats to the quartet blocking her, but they're too preoccupied by an egregious muffin overcharge.

She sighs and turns sideways to squeeze past the group. The oldest and tiniest granny flips her off with a gnarled finger and mutters something about manners.

Veronica blows her a kiss and hurries on.

"Morning ladies." She drops into the third armchair. "Sorry I'm late."

Jackie lifts her hand in greeting and Mac offers a tepid, "Hey."

"You two look miserable."

"And you're dripping sunshine," Mac says, in her usual dry tone.

"Why, thank you!" She flashes a wide, toothy smile. "I was wondering where the glow was coming from."

"Are you eating?" Jackie gestures over her shoulder at a display. "The dessert case is to die for today."

"Noooo," Veronica answers with a choked laugh. "I'm so stuffed I had to unbutton my jeans on the drive here."

After last night, she'd expected Logan to cancel the order, but once again, she'd awoken to find Pete's Concession Truck parked in her driveway, churning out bacon and waffles. Logan was out late, so she didn't interpret the gift as implicit forgiveness – not that she had done anything to forgive – but she did take advantage of what was probably the last delivery, stuffing her face to the point of bursting.

A teenaged girl approaches and places a dessert plate on the table in front of Jackie.

Veronica tries not to groan.

Tiramisu.

_Wonderful_.

The girl's long strawberry blonde hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail and her patterned metallic vest is painfully familiar from Veronica's days of hostessing.

"Hi, I'm Tori. What can I get for you?"

"Caramel Latte, please."

"Sure, that'll be just a minute." She turns to the others. "Anything else for you two?"

Both indicate that they're good, and she leaves.

"We were right over there the first time we met." Jackie points at the coffee counter. "You were arguing with Duncan Kane, and I acted like a total bitch."

"I wouldn't exactly say _bitch_..."

"Sure, you would." Jackie smiles to soften the words. "I was awful."

"You were a seventeen year-old girl trying to reinvent yourself into something more glamorous. So you overcompensated a bit."

_And I know nothing about overcompensating. Those first few months at the academy..._

Jackie doesn't protest, simply smiles a _'thank you.'_ She's as effortlessly chic as ever this morning in her sapphire silk sleeveless blouse and dark skinny jeans.

While they wait for Veronica’s drink, conversation turns to the weather, the Middle East, and Chris Brown's latest legal issues.

At a nearby table, a blonde teenage girl narrates a story to her rapt audience in exuberant Lilly Kane-esque tones, and Veronica grins to herself.

The espresso machine grinds and screeches, and teaspoons clink on coffee mugs. She runs her thumb over a snagged thread in her chair's slipcover.

Duncan often used to sit in this chair – before their birthday reunion, of course. Afterwards, his obsession for daily cappuccinos waned considerably.

He's in Neptune now, and she's bound to run into him eventually.

_If I planned to stick around, that is. Luckily, I'm not._

She turns her focus back to her friends.

"No, I've been up for hours," Jackie is saying, "I stopped by the Board of Education this morning to register my son to start school on Monday,"

Mac inclines her head. "So you're officially moving back to Neptune?"

"That's the plan. Michael needs male role models, and I guess on the inside, I'll always be that teenage girl craving daddy's approval."

Terrence Cook may set off Veronica's 'womanizer' radar, but that doesn't mean he isn't a good dad. Not many girls are lucky enough to hit the father jackpot like she did, but here's hoping Jackie can find something close.

Tori returns with Veronica’s  latte and leaves again.

She wraps her hands around the warm mug, inhaling the aromas of espresso and caramel with a deep pleasurable sigh.

_Needed this._

With Jackie’s permission, she quickly recaps her progress on the Cook case – the visit to Hearst, the anonymous call blaming Luke Haldeman, and her conversation with Brandon the bartender.

"What's the next step?" Jackie's fork slides through the layers of her tiramisu, and Veronica averts her eyes.

"I need to do background checks and look into some financials." She turns to Mac with a big innocent grin. "So hey old buddy..."

"I can't," Mac stops her before she can finish her request. "I wish I could, but I just don't have the bandwidth to take on any more work. Not with the hours I'm working already."

Veronica bites her lip. _I knew that. I shouldn't have put her in the position to have to turn me down._

"However...if you need a hacker, I might know somebody."

"Really?" She leans forward.

Mac flashes a warm smile. "You didn't think I'd leave you hanging, did you? Let me check into it real quick."

"Thank you."

The conversation trails off to a comfortable silence while Mac types out text messages on her phone and Jackie picks at her dessert.

Veronica sips her latte and becomes absorbed with Ed Sheeran's "Give Me Love" drifting quietly from an overhead speaker.

Her eyes make an involuntary leap to the espresso machine, but True Love is not waiting there today. Not in a black cardigan. Not in a three-piece Prada suit.

Not that she's admitting anything.   About True Love or otherwise.

"It's killing you not asking, isn't it?" Mac says.

Her attention snaps back. "Not asking what?"

"Okay.  Forget I said anything."

Veronica shrugs her shoulders. "Works for me."

The other girls wait her out with matching expressions.

_Nope. Not going to ask. Not my problem._

She sips her drink.

_He got himself into it when he volunteered for the auction._

"Do you want to share this with me?" Jackie gestures to her tiramisu. "I can ask for another plate?"

_Who needs plates when you can just...UGH!_

"Not hungry, but thanks for offering."

"Veronica, you're staring at it like you're mesmerized. It's not a big deal to split it."

She holds up a hand. "I'm good. Really. I'm sure it's delicious, but there's no room in my belly."

Mac's phone buzzes and she thumbs on the screen to read the text. "She's available. How's one o'clock? At your office?"

"The hacker you mentioned?" Veronica asks, and is answered with a nod in the affirmative. "One o'clock is perfect."

Mac types out a response, and Veronica fumbles for a conversation topic that does not involve ex-boyfriends, true love, or the sensual uses of tiramisu.

Finally, admitting the futility of letting it go, she huffs, "Fine! Who won the stupid bid?"

The answer is obvious by the way Jackie's nose crinkles with distaste.

"Madison Sinclair?"

"But you were prepared for that, right?" Mac's tone is gentle.

Veronica nods, going for stoic, although her insides churn with...something.

Jackie squeezes her shoulder. "If it makes you feel any better, he looked nauseated."

It doesn't. She changes the subject. "So how about you two? Looking forward to your dates tonight?"

Two sets of eyes stare daggers at her.

Veronica laughs and holds up her hands. "Hey, you're the ones who bid."

Jackie sighs and her shoulders droop. "I guess I was expecting a little resistance from Wallace, but I never imagined he'd react so...icily...to seeing me."

His reaction _was_ a bit extreme. "So what's the plan for tonight?"

"Well, according to this morning's polite but detached email, we're meeting at Café Bliss at eight o'clock."

"Café Bliss, huh?" Mac asks.

"You've been there?"

Mac nods. "Checked it out with a girlfriend once, but it's more of a dating destination."

"I bet he's kicking himself for that selection right about now." Jackie says.

Mac turns to Veronica. "Have you spoken to him since last night?"

"Wallace? No." She blows out a frustrated breath. "He's not answering my phone calls or texts."

Jackie puts a hand on her arm. "I'm sorry for getting between you two."

"Forget about it. We're best friends. He'll get over it. He just needs time."

"Do you think he'll forgive me?"

_Good question._ "Maybe?" Veronica shrugs helplessly. "He's not as trusting as he used to be. The past few years were difficult for him. Sometimes I find myself searching for signs of my sunny, optimistic BFF"

"He's still in there," Mac says. "Just a bit more...wary."

Veronica's heart is heavy like a lead ball. She should have protected him. Somehow. "You did what you had to for your son. He knows that. You need to convince him you regret lying to him."

Jackie swallows and nods. "I did the right thing but in the wrong way."

Mac offers a sympathetic smile. "What are you wearing?"

"I bought this red dress the day after I got back, and the moment I saw it, I knew Wallace would love it." She traces the rim of her cup. " _My_ Wallace, I mean."

_My Wallace?_ "What are you hoping for with this date?" Veronica asks.

Jackie glances back up. "Mostly, I want my friend back."

She's not telling the complete truth. Last night's shining eyes and breathless excitement at the sight of her ex proved otherwise.

_But who am I to judge? I wasn't exactly the picture of detachment, myself._

Jackie seems emotionally spent, so Veronica turns to her other friend. "How about you? Excited for your date with Magic Dick?"

"I can think of more exciting things. Like being buried alive." Mac pinches the bridge of her nose. "I think of this as less a date and more like unpaid overtime."

"So no new outfit?"

Mac fixes her with a bland stare. "I don't know, Veronica. What would you suggest to wear for dinner with an oversized child?"

"Armored breastplate and a chastity belt?"

Mac nods. "So, daily office wear it is."

"Where are you going?"

"Taste. It's new and fancy, so at least I'll get one perk out of this farce."

"Taste, huh?" Suddenly nauseated, Veronica sets down her mug, faking a smile and a cheery tone. "Wow. You can double-date with Logan and Madison."

Mac rolls her eyes. "If only I could trade. Let those two be awful together."

_If only you could._

"Just keep telling yourself it's for charity?"

"Neptune's Waves is actually a worthy cause." Mac says.

"What is it?"

"Bodie Chang founded it. Once a month, they teach under-privileged kids to surf, even donating boards to those who show more than a passing interest. Dick's been involved for a while."

"For the tax write-off, I'm sure."

"Can't hurt." Mac agrees. "There's a sign-up sheet at work for volunteers and it's always filled months in advance, so...?"

"Why?  How many surf instructors do they need?"

"Only a couple, but there are other jobs. Setting up ahead of time, picking up the kids, or taking them home. Making lunches. Cleaning up. I don't know, maybe it's so popular because he offers one extra paid vacation day per quarter to anybody who signs up."

"Have you signed up?"

"My turn is coming up next month. Hey, you guys should come along. We could get dinner and make a day of it."

"We'll see," Veronica answers. She won't be around – as soon as she solves the Cook case, she's out of here – but she's not up for having that conversation right now.

Jackie's cell rings and she glances at the display. "It's Dana. Do you mind if I take this? I left Michael home with her and my dad."

Veronica and Mac both wave her off.

She steps away from the table and answers the phone over by the wall. Mere seconds later, she returns, agitated. "I have to go. The sheriff just arrested my father on some new evidence."

"He was arrested? I'm coming." Veronica pushes back her chair. "I'll meet you there." 

 

* * *

 

**Neptune Sheriff's Department**

The Sheriff's Department is quiet when Veronica arrives – disorientingly so.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she'd been braced for throngs of reporters clamoring for scoops on the fallen baseball hero. But this isn't 2006, and Don Lamb is worm food now.

Sheriff Van Lowe is many unpleasant things, but – shockingly – 'publicity whore' isn't one of them. It wouldn't suit his purposes – the "Vinnie Special" plays out better for all parties involved when it's kept on the D.L.

Two of the three visitor's chairs are occupied, angled away from each other so that the balding, dead-eyed accountant type won't be mistakenly associated with the pissed-off working girl.

Behind the counter, a tall redhead in her mid-fifties works at a terminal. Her fair skin is pink and freckled from sun-exposure and her brass nameplate identifies her as Michelle Foster. Blue eyes lift at Veronica's approach, seemingly annoyed by the interruption. "May I help you?"

"I understand my client, Terrence Cook, is in custody?"

The woman appraises her with suspicion and pokes a button on the intercom. "Another lawyer here for Mr. Cook."

"Another one?" Vinnie Van Lowe's distinctive voice responds. "Gimme a sec."

The clerk returns to her typing without another glance.

_I guess I'm dismissed._ Veronica bites back the comment and steps away.

The Sheriff's Department is much as it's always been. As it always will be. A fact the late Don Lamb had once been caught on video lamenting after the fire of 2006 missed torching the place by a mere handful of feet.

The squad room is meagerly lit by a scattering of wall sconces on chevron-patterned columns that always reminded Veronica of Charlie Brown's shirt as a child. Clipboards and "NO SMOKING" signs line the walls and the musty odor is a permanent feature no amount of deodorizing can combat.

Behind her, the 'Thrift Shop' song blares from a cell phone.

The angry looking woman answers it. "Hallo?"

Her heels echo as she moves out into the hallway and continues with her call. "...No, he's being questioned...Pandering and Extortion, I think...you want me to what?...I don't have any money...No, not the sheriff – he just brought in some other big-shot...just some asshole deputy with an asshole face..."

The conversation moves off down the hall.

Veronica examines the Wanted Posters while she waits, noting details for potential skip/trace work for Mars Investigations. One of the perps seems familiar – from one of her old cases she thinks – and she almost snaps a picture to text to her partner, Joe.

_Why? So he can ignore my instincts some more? Write it off as paranoia. Or even worse, profess his love and beg for another chance?_

_I'll pass._

Two lower-ranking deputies shuffle papers in the bullpen under belt-driven ceiling fans. She scrutinizes the faces, but they're strangers. Young, by all appearances.

In the back right corner, the door to Interview Room Two opens and Vinnie Van Lowe ambles out. He scans the lobby and breaks into wide smile.

"Veronica Mars." He approaches with a slow swagger. "Look at you all grown up."

"And look at you, all _cleaned_ up." She smiles back, despite herself. "What, Members Only doesn't make a uniform collection?"

He points a finger at her in a gesture of 'touché'. "Saw you last night at the auction. What did you think of my performance?"

_It would have been perfect. Back in 1988_. "Marky Mark's got nothing on you, Vinnie."

"That's what I say. You should see me in my Calvins." He touches his stomach making a sizzle sound.

"Wish I could, but I'll have to pass. Too much splendor for mere mortal eyes."

Vinnie chuckles. "So you're a lawyer now?"

She holds up her hand. "Nope. Never said I was. I told the clerk Terrence Cook is my client. She jumped to her own conclusions."

"Why're you here, Veronica?"

"I was hired by the family to clear his name."

"Ahhh...so you're working for the old man again?"

" _With_ the old man."

"Noted." He smirks and checks his wristwatch. "Well, it was delightful catching up, but..."

"Wait. What about Cook? I'd like to talk to him."

Vinnie laughs again, a little cruelly this time. "You ever hear of the Miranda Rights, Mars?"

"I'd wager I've recited them more often than you have."

"Good...good. Then you should know that while your client has the right to an attorney, he does not, in fact, have the right to a private investigator. At least not while he's being interrogated." Vinnie pats her on the shoulder, sliding his hand down her arm to squeeze her elbow. "Catch you later, Mars."

He walks away, and Veronica lets out a frustrated sigh.

Before she can leave, her phone buzzes with a text message from Jackie:

 

> **Can't make it. Need to stay home with Michael so that Dana can head up to the station.**

Veronica types out a response:

 

> **NP. Sheriff won't cooperate anyway.**

As she slides her cell back into her bag's inner pocket, something green-and-white catches her eye.

_That sneaky bastard._

Veronica spins on her heel, striding past the counter and several desks to the door of Interview Room Two. She taps once, and then turns the knob. "Sheriff Van Lowe?"

Four sets of eyes turn in her direction. Next to Jackie's father, an attractive black woman in her mid-thirties pauses mid-sentence. His lawyer, judging by the expensive suit.  Vinnie sits opposite and a deputy waits to the left of the door, as if he was on his way out when she opened it.

"Yes?"

Veronica holds up the object. "I just wanted to return your pen. You must have _accidentally_ dropped it in my purse while we were talking."

He smirks and stands, accepting the proffered item. "Thanks. I was just wondering where I'd left that."

"I bet you were." She shifts to address Terrence. "I'll talk to you soon, Mr. Cook."

He gives her a silent nod, and she exits the room.

The deputy follows her out, pulling the door shut with a click.

"Hey. Veronica," he calls before she's taken three steps.

She turns, looking him over for the first time. Around six foot, with dark, buzz-cut hair, and sad eyes that tilt down at the outer corners, she immediately recognizes the face.

"Norris Clayton?"

In a way, it makes perfect sense.

"It's been a while." The same soft voice and shy smile. "How've you been?"

"Getting by," she smiles back and gestures to his uniform. "So law enforcement, huh? You wear it well."

His cheeks don't exactly pinken, but it's close. "Thank you." He coughs and continues, staring down at his feet. “I just...I guess I've always wanted to thank you for getting me off the hook all those years ago. If it wasn't for you..."

He's like an adorable puppy, and she feels herself softening. She touches his arm. "It was nothing. You did nothing wrong."

_Except for letting yourself be caught between Mr. Revenge-Served-Cold on one side and the arrogant I'm-Willing-To-Cheat-To-Maintain-My-Perfect-Arrest-Record Fed on the other._

_Who tried to kidnap me._

_Which led to..._

Norris accepts her words with a nod. "You're working for Cook?"

"In an Investigator's capacity. What can you tell me about the arrest?"

He scans the room, but nobody is watching. One of the deputies is taking the statement of the dead-eyed accountant, while the other holds a phone to his ear, jotting down the occasional note.

"Let me write down these lunch orders before I forget them." Norris steps into Interview Room One and Veronica follows.

He grabs a yellow legal pad from a wall pocket and does in fact, begin making a list of sandwiches and salads, speaking under his breath. "A witness came forward claiming Terrence Cook threatened his position on the team if he didn't purposely throw the game."

_Well this is a surprise._

"Which player?"

Norris glances back through the open doorway and drops his voice even lower. "A kid named Jeremy Enbom. The first baseman."

"Enbom, huh? Met him yesterday. Entitled little shithead."

He shakes his head and grins. "I had a similar impression."

"Who's the lawyer?"

"Lincoln. Um...Natasha – no, it's Natalie. Natalie Lincoln."

"Any good?"

"Seems to be, but I've never seen her in action."

Veronica holds up a finger to wait, and pulls out her notepad. He glances over his shoulder while she writes down the name.

She smiles up at him. "So Norris...any way you can get me in to speak to my client?"

He sucks air through his teeth and hesitates. "I can't make any promises. Maybe after the Sheriff leaves?"

"Okay." She fishes a business card from her bag and hands it to him. "Call me when the coast is clear. And thanks."

She exits the room, heading towards the lobby.

A Latina woman now stands near the counter holding a pink-clad baby, and clutching the hand of a small boy. Long hair covers half her face.

_She looks every bit as weary as I feel._

It isn't until the lady glances up with a flicker of recognition that Veronica realizes who she's looking at.

"Carmen? Is that you?"

She prays she's mistaken. This hunch-shouldered woman barely able to make eye-contact can't possibly be the same confident Carmen Ruiz from high school.

"Hi, Veronica. Long time, no see." Her voice is steady, but her eyes skitter like a trapped animal backed into a corner.

"Are these your children?"

"Yes, this is Joseph and Maria."

She crouches to greet the boy. "Hello, Joseph. I'm Veronica. I knew your mommy years ago. It's so nice to meet you."

The child responds, but his words are too quiet to make out. At eye-level, Carmen's thumb twists nervously at her simple gold wedding band.

Veronica stands back up, but before she can speak further, another deputy arrives, inserting himself between Veronica and the woman. "Here Babe," he says, handing Carmen three twenties and a white piece of paper. "Get exactly what's on the list."

"Okay."

"Bring me the change, and don't lose the receipt like you did last week."

Tad Wilson.

Nausea churns in Veronica's gut.

_Babe? Please say it isn't so._

Carmen's eyes are downcast, and her husband realizes they're not alone. He glances between his wife and Veronica with suspicion.

"You remember Veronica Mars." There's a forced levity to Carmen’s tone. "She was already here when I arrived."

"Yeah, I remember her." Tad's eyes narrow into hate-filled slits and hairs lift on Veronica's arm. "Well, if you want to have lunch ready in time, you'd better get going."

"Okay," Carmen says. "It was nice seeing you again, Veronica," she says, turning to leave.

"No kiss goodbye?" Tad demands.

Carmen turns back; allows him to press his lips to her cheek.

Just for a moment, Veronica thinks she sees revulsion in her old friend's expression, and when their eyes meet, there's a hint of that old defiance.

Before she can comment, Carmen exits the station, pulling her son behind her.

Tad watches his wife leave and then turns, his eyes sweeping over Veronica like a bully looking for weaknesses. "And how can we help you today, _Veronica_?" he asks. His words are innocent enough, but the threat is clear.

_Stay the hell away from Carmen._

"I'm good. I've already been helped."

He glances at the bitchy receptionist, who gives him a small nod, and he walks away, stopping once to look back.

 

* * *

 

She manages to keep her cool until the moment Tad is out of sight, and then Veronica releases the breath she's been holding and rushes down the outer corridor to the Women's Room, shoving the door open with both hands.

The bathroom hasn't changed since the days her father was running the joint. Three stainless steel stalls. Three porcelain wall mounted sinks. Wide wire-reinforced windows near the ceiling. Pale gold walls. Basic and utilitarian.

Veronica paces the length of the room three times – fists clenched and surging with adrenaline – before giving in to her urge and kicking the green metal garbage can.

In response, the swivel lid makes a complete rotation on its axis.

She takes it personally.

"Mother fucker!" She kicks it again.

"Goddamn mother fucking shit!" She kicks the can a third time.

_What am I doing? My broken toes aren't completely healed from my last meltdown._

The thing isn't even dented. What's it made of? Titanium?

"Fuck it." She's drawing back to kick one more time, when the lock on one of the doors disengages with a sliding click.

She freezes – _Oh shit_ – lowers her foot to ground in slow motion.

A tall brunette in a tan deputy's uniform exits the stall, glancing at her with an amused smirk. "Would you like to file a restraining order against that garbage can?"

Veronica stares dumbly.

Around the same age as her – give or take a year – the woman is pretty, with a heart-shaped face and cheekbones that could cut glass. "I hear it's a real trash talker," she continues, turning on the sink. Pink hand soap squirts from the dispenser, its industrial scent overpowering in the small space.

The spell is broken, and Veronica lets out an embarrassed snort. "I am so sorry for that meltdown. I recently got back in town after being gone for years, and I just had an encounter an old friend."

The deputy meets her eyes in the mirror, lifting one brow. "And he's aging better than you'd hoped? Still has all his hair?"

A grin inches across Veronica face. "No, not that kind of friend. I ran into _him_ on Thursday, and yeah, he still has the hair." She adds in an indecorous undertone, "And the guns. And the six pack." She shakes her head as if to snap out of a trance.

The woman laughs – a quiet exhalation with crinkling eyes. She dries her hands and tosses out the brown paper towel. "So who'd you run into just now?" she asks, fishing a tube of hand cream from her purse, popping the cap, and squirting a dab onto her open palm.

The scent is comforting, reminding Veronica of cocoa butter and Grandma Reynolds. She gently pushes the garbage can back to its original location. "Just a girl from high school."

"Frenemy?"

"No. Somebody I liked very much, actually. The rare, genuinely kind Neptunian."

"Ahhh..." the deputy nods, as if the explanation clarifies everything. "So naturally, encountering that elusive creature inspired you to assault an innocent trash can. Anyone would react that way."

Veronica chuckles. "I'm sorry. I probably seem crazy. I'm just...." _So damn pissed._

The overhead lighting brings out a rich auburn tone in the wavy hair barely skimming the woman's shoulders. She produces a purple comb, using it to create a deep side part, and secures the length in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. Dropping the comb back into her bag, she turns, leaning back against the edge of the sink. “So what happened to get you into this kind of state?"

Veronica hesitates. She's not in the habit of confiding in strangers. Or friends, for that matter. Then again, it's a lot healthier than kicking trash cans.

Her toes throb in answer to her thoughts.

"Look, I recognize helpless anger," the deputy says. Her pale eyes – green maybe or blue – are fixed and direct. “I’ve experienced it often enough in my own life. That frustration over having no idea how to fix a problem."

"That's an accurate description of how I'm feeling right now."

"My shift doesn't start for another twenty minutes, anyway." The woman shrugs one shoulder, a gesture conveying that she won't push the matter any further.

She seems sincere enough, and what's the worst that could happen?

_It's not like I'm required to name names._

Veronica takes a deep breath and pushes herself up to sit on the edge of the adjacent sink. "In high school, I had a reputation for being...resourceful. People would come to me with problems, and I would fix them."

"Olivia Pope – the early years?"

"I wish! I think the usual comparison was to Nancy Drew."

"Hey, no shame. Nancy got shit done."

"Right? That's what I always said. Anyway, the girl in question came to me for help near the end of junior year. Apparently, she'd tried to break up with her boyfriend – this emotionally abusive pig – and his response was to blackmail her to stay with him."

The deputy makes air quotes. "I'll kill myself if you leave me"?

"No, not emotional blackmail. The real thing. He had a video of her in a compromising position – which incidentally, he'd arranged by dosing her drink with GHB – and was threatening to share it with the entire school."

"What a fuckwad."

"Basically," Veronica's thumb finds a chink in the sink's smooth porcelain. A jagged indent. "We set him up. Came up with a little compromising footage of our own. Mutually assured destruction."

"Sounds like the asshole had it coming if he was blackmailing his girlfriend."

"Exactly, but our plan backfired. He called our bluff and released the video."

The deputy sympathy-cringes. "And, teenagers being teenagers, they probably shamed the girl instead of the slug who did it to her?"

"Guessed it in one." Veronica answers in a flat tone, hands tightening around the edge of sink. _How can this still make me so angry all of these years later?_ "She was a much better human being than I am, though. She refused to allow me to release the footage we had on him."

The woman raises a brow. "I'm not sure I could have stopped myself."

"Oh trust me, it almost killed me to delete that video."

"So the guy got away with it?" The deputy's eyes glitter in a manner that suggests she doesn't think eight years is too late for meting out a little retribution.

"Not exactly." Veronica doesn't even try to suppress her smirk. "I may have whispered a few words to the head of the local biker gang. And the pig may have ended up naked and duct taped to the school flagpole."

Her new friend leans forward, eagerly. "You didn't!"

"I did."

"Remind me not to get on your bad side."

Veronica barks out a laugh. "Most who do, live to regret it."

The woman nods – the slow-motion gesture of one strong woman acknowledging another. "So, back to today?"

And...the glee fizzles. "She showed up in the lobby just now."

"I think I know how this story ends. She reunited with the pig in the intervening years?"

Veronica's lips stretch into a tight smile. "Married with kids."

"Well that explains the assault on the can."

"It's even worse. I'm fairly certain he's graduated from emotional abuse to physical. I have no evidence, but I'm a cop. I trust my instincts."

A small twitch of the woman's lips – like a suspicion has been confirmed – is her only reaction to Veronica's profession.

Veronica continues. "She's like a completely different person from the strong, confident girl I last saw in school. God, I can't believe she went back to him. She was so over his bullshit."

"Oh, I can. I volunteer regularly at the domestic violence center. You can't imagine how many women return to abusive relationships. For a multitude of reasons. Those men are masters of manipulation."

Veronica sighs. "No, you're right. I shouldn't be surprised. One out of three female homicide victims is killed by spouses or domestic partners, though by the time I'm called in, it's already too late." She kicks her toes at a cracked wall tile, missing it by several inches. "But the friends and relatives universally tell the same stories. It’s as if there's some training school for these monsters."

Their eyes meet and they share a moment of silence.

"So the question is..." the brunette begins.” How are we going to get Carmen Wilson and her children away from that vile piece of shit?"

For once, Veronica is speechless.

The deputy snickers. "It wasn't that hard to figure out. I've been watching those two for a while, and the signs are obvious. I'm at a loss as to how to help, though. He keeps her isolated, and thwarts every attempt I make to befriend her."

"Son of a bitch!" Veronica slides off the sink, her boots hitting the floor with a clunk. She turns back, ready to spew more rage against Tad, when a glimpse of herself in the mirror stops her cold.

Blue eyes. Golden hair. Pale skin. It's the same face as always, but yet at this moment, she sees something deeper. Beyond the superficial.

She sees Carmen.

It's in her eyes. Wary. Defensive. On alert for any sign of danger.

And it's in her hair. Center-parted and longer than it's been at any point since 2003. Worn close to the face.

_How long have I been hiding behind my hair?_

_Did HE make that connection back in San Diego?_

_Did my unraveling make him stronger?_

_Were my dark circles and under-eye bags figurative notches on his bedpost?_

She tastes bile in the back of her throat, and in a surge of defiance, she produces a hair-tie from the inner pocket of her bag, and twists her hair into a high bun.

_Fuck you. I'd send you a picture if I could._

_Then again, hunting you down would be even more fun._

The deputy's voice tugs her from her thoughts. "If it makes you feel any better, I've made it my life's mission to make Tad miserable at any opportunity."

"How so?"

The woman lifts one shoulder, her expression a blend of mischief and feigned innocence. "You know, the usual highly-mature things. Messing with the duty roster. Tossing handfuls of birdseed onto his hood. He's always bitching how his car is the only one covered in bird shit every day."

Veronica can't help but laugh. The mental image is too strong.

"I haven't introduced myself, by the way." The deputy holds out her hand. "Siobhan Fitzpatrick."

Alarm bells go off in her head and Veronica takes a step back. "Fitzpatrick?"

The other woman drops her hand, rolling her eyes in the manner of one used to this kind of reaction. She speaks in a bland voice. "Yes. Those Fitzpatricks. And no. I'm not evil. I'd never even met another Fitzpatrick until I was twenty-three."

"You weren't missing anything."

"Preach, sister."

Shame twists Veronica's belly. Who in Neptune isn't related to a criminal? Or a murderer? She touches the woman's arm. "Hey. I owe you an apology. As somebody who's been mistreated by people angry at my father, I should know better. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. My mother got me the hell away from her toxic family when I was an infant. If it weren't for my grandmother's dying wish, I never would have met any of them."

"She asked you to come back to Neptune?"

Siobhan shrugs. "Seemed like I should take the opportunity to get to know her while I still had a chance."

The image of an elderly woman comes to mind. Rheumy eyes, stringy hair. Proud owner of a green Barracuda, with a fondness for the Wheel of Fortune, and a bad attitude. "I may have met her once. During my Nancy Drew-ing."

"Cantankerous old hell beast?"

"That's the one."

"I moved in and took care of her for the last five months of her life. She was ornery right up until the end.” Siobhan laughs – a sound straddling the edge between amusement and sadness. "Good to know where I got it from."

Veronica likes this woman – feels an innate sense of kinship to her.

She's enjoyed reconnecting with Jackie and Weevil, Mac is her rock, and Wallace is the greatest BFF a girl could ever ask for. But there are some aspects of her life they'll never understand.

She can see herself becoming friends with Siobhan. Having a sounding board who shares her need for justice. And retribution. Somebody who understands her drive to see it through – no matter how many extra hours are required. No matter what physical risks come with the job.

And she can't celebrate this woman's misfortune, even if it was a Fitzpatrick. The very one who raised Liam to be the psychotic freak that he is, in fact. So she simply says, "I'm sorry for your loss."

"S'okay. It's been a few years now." Her eyes say otherwise. She's still grieving on some level.

"A few years? What on earth would compel you stick around this hell hole afterwards? Insatiable desire to rid Neptune of crime and corruption?"

_Namely, your uncles and cousins._

"I wish it were something that noble." Siobhan's eyes drop.

"A man?"

"A man." she exhales. "But _oh_ , what a man."

Veronica wrinkles her nose in distaste. "Ugh. One of those? I had one of those, once."

Siobhan tilts her head in question. "Mr. Guns and Abs?"

"Yep. That kind is the worst. When they get ahold of you, the only solution is to run for your life."

"Wish I'd thought of that." Siobhan sighs, and shakes it off. "We should hang out some time. Go out for drinks or coffee."

"I'd like that."

"I didn't catch your name, by the way."

"Oh! You're right; everything got sidetracked by the name 'Fitzpatrick'." She chuckles. "I'm Veronica. Veronica Mars."

It's like being transported from California to Siberia. Siobhan's face becomes a block of ice.

Ouch.

_Better put a kibosh on that "Adventures of Siobhonica" story I was already writing in my head._

"I'm guessing from the fifty degree drop in temperature that you recognize my name?"

"Yeah. I've heard your name." The tone is clipped.

Feeling awkward, Veronica turns to the mirror, fishing a pink lip gloss from her bag and twisting off the cap. "For the record, Liam tried to tattoo my face, but it wasn't me who pulled the gun on him."

"I've heard the story. Are you sure you've never heard my name before?"

"No..." She rubs her lips together, distributing the color, and tosses the tube back in her purse. "Should I have?"

"I was engaged to Logan Echolls."

Veronica's grip on the sink is the only thing keeping her knees from buckling. Unfortunately, she can't hold back the dry heave.

_No No No No No._

This is exactly what she's feared since leaving Neptune. The very reason his name was off-limits to her friends and family.

"Are you okay?" Siobhan asks.

Veronica breathes to center herself and turns back, a forced smile pasted across her face. "Of course. I'm fine."

_Breathe, Veronica._

Her lungs feel hard and mangled. Like a crumpled aluminum can behind her ribs. She walks the length of the room. Returns.

_You are composed. You are placid._

"So you and Logan, huh?"

Small nod of assent.

"Guess it makes a certain kind of sense, being public servants and all. You two meet on the job?"

"He wasn't the mayor when I met him. Just a rich boy with..." she trails off, eyes filling with memories.

"With what?"

Siobhan snaps back to the present. "With too much time on his hands."

_That's not what she was going to say._

Veronica walks the length of the room again.

Siobhan leans against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest. "You're actually angry."

"I am not angry," Veronica says in her calmest voice. "Why would I be angry? I left town. There were no promises or expectations. I didn't even say goodbye."

"You ran." At Veronica's defensive expression, Siobhan laughs. "Hey. Your words. Two minutes ago."

_Right._

"Okay. So I ran. But it's been six years. Logan can date anybody he chooses. He can...marry..." Articulating the word nearly triggers her gag reflex. "...anybody he chooses."

"You're bristling like a cat with a twitchy tail," Siobhan says in a dry tone.

"Nope. All good." Veronica stops walking and leans back on the sink.

A bull’s-eye-shaped ceiling vent kicks on with a whoomp, and half a dozen cobwebs spin and swirl in the airflow; a disgusting – but mesmerizing – dance.

_Was. She'd said "was engaged". Past tense._

But how far in the past? Were they already broken up? Or did it happen after Veronica ran into him at his office?

_Ran into his penis, if we're being truthful._

_Did he bang me on his desk, and then head home to fess up to his fiancée?_

Fuck. On top of everything else, she can't be responsible for destroying a relationship.

Veronica gathers her will to meet Siobhan's eyes. "You said _'was engaged_ '. Is this a recent thing?"

"Define recent."

She bites her lip. "This past week?"

Siobhan's mouth quirks. An outward expression of amusement, but it doesn't completely hide the undercurrent of sadness in her eyes. "He broke things off back in January."

"So about eight months then." The knot in Veronica's gut unravels just a bit.

"Give or take. Sounds like you two aren't wasting any time, though."

"We're not—“

Siobhan laughs, mirthlessly. "Of course! Now it makes sense. You're the mystery blonde in the photos."

"Photos?"

"This morning's Neptune Herald. The two of you getting cozy at the yesterday's Neptunalia."

The knot pulls tight again. O _h God, not the Ferris wheel! "_ Exactly how cozy?" she asks, voice deadly serious.

"Umm...kissing and hand-holding in the Midway. And the County Supervisor dating anybody is news."

Siobhan dampens a paper towel, bending to swipe at an invisible smudge on her shoe. "I should have guessed. It seemed unusual for Logan to be that demonstrative with a stranger."

"Really? The Logan I remember would get demonstrative with a tree stump if it showed him the smallest amount of affection."

"The Logan you remember wasn't in politics. His every action wasn't being scrutinized by his detractors."

"Logan was born being scrutinized by detractors, but I get your point."

Siobhan sighs, and straightens. "Well, congratulations on your reunion. I wish you both happiness."

"No. Wait." Veronica holds up her hand. "Logan and I are not reunited. I mean, despite how it looks in the photos, I'm really trying not to."

"Trying not to?" That bitter laugh again. "Like trying not to smoke? Or drink caffeine?"

"To be fair, those are both addictive substances."

"I know..." Siobhan says, and it's as if she exhales the bitterness. Her eyes become softer. Sad. "If it were any other man, I might question that statement. But trust me. I get it."

"Sometimes...you just get swept up in the moment. It's exciting, and you feel alive. And happy." Veronica's throat constricts. "But it's only a Band-Aid. The moment passes and your life is still a disaster. Your problems still exist, and now you've created new ones. Logan and I are not getting back together. He's a complicated man, and I don't have room in my life for any complications."

She's made that last statement so many times in the past week it's starting to feel like a speech.

"Well, you might want to tell him that, because those photos show a man who's found everything he wants."

Veronica makes a strangled sound of frustration and begins pacing again. "Fucking Logan! Four days back. That’s it. Four days, and I can't turn around without seeing Logan, or hearing about him, or seeing something that reminds me of him."

_Or...fucking...Logan._

"What a hardship." Siobhan says, "I should probably tell you he's still one of my closest friends."

"I'm sorry. I'm just so...ARGHH." Two hands squeeze her cranium – an overly dramatic gesture, to be sure.

Siobhan laughs and drags the garbage to the center of the room. "Go ahead. You know you want to."

Veronica stares the green metal can, tempted to relent and kick it, then sighs and begins moving again.

"So you haven't seen Logan in six years? Not even a phone call? Or an email?"

"No. Nothing."

"And yet after only four days, you're already this angry?"

"I've spent half my life being angry at Logan Echolls. This is nothing new."

"Angry for what?"

_For being unforgettable? For setting the bar too high?_

"I don't know, for being an entitled, loudmouthed, jackass? For making stupid life choices? Crime? Taxes? World hunger?"

_Because my anger protects me from being consumed by him._

"Not sure you can pin the world hunger on him."

"Oh, I'm sure he had a hand in it." Veronica jokes and then grows serious. "So...I'm guessing Logan told you a bunch of terrible things about me?"

"No." Siobhan shakes her head. "He never talked about you at all. I mean, I knew you were one of the ex-girlfriends. Now and then his friends would inadvertently mention you. Logan would perk up, and then everything would get super awkward. That was always fun."

_Ouch._

"He pretty much kept quiet on the matter of exes. He talks in his sleep though, so I know he'd have nightmares about you."

Veronica barks an ugly laugh. "Nightmares? What, where I'm telling him he can never live up to my exacting standards?"

Siobhan looks at her oddly. "No, it was usually about somebody trying to steal your hair. Or him pleading with you to give him a gun."

"Oh." _Fuck_.

"Do you know what that means?"

Veronica nods. _It means he was as traumatized as I was._ "They're lines from a play we did in eighth grade."

"Logan tried acting?" Siobhan asks with an incredulous expression. "On stage?"

"When isn't he acting? So that's all?"

"Well, there are the dreams where he's begging Weevil not to call you. Something he didn't want you to know.  I suppose that's from the same play?" Siobhan arches an eyebrow.

"I think that was from Act Three."

_Time for a chat with my buddy, Weevil._

A dozen more questions circulate inside Veronica's head. How did she meet Logan? How long were they together? Did they cohabitate? Were they in love? Why did they break up?

_And why was she so damn icy when she learned my name, if Logan never talked about me?_

"You look nothing like your pictures, by the way."

"Logan showed you pictures?"

"No. But I do work for your dad now and then, and he has a few on his desk."

"It's the bags under my eyes. Long-term stress will do that to you. What kind of jobs?"

"Basic temptation scenarios, usually."

"My dad lets you honey trap?" Veronica asks indignantly. "He'd always forbid me from doing it."

"Well, one, I'm not his daughter, and two, I'm an adult."

"Regardless, I'm jealous."

Siobhan makes a choking sound in her throat. She turns away, pretending to fiddle with something in her purse, but her glassy eyes are reflected back in the mirror.

_Right. Probably shouldn't talk about jealousy when I've publicly made out with the man she obviously still cares deeply for._

Veronica puts a hand gently on the woman's shoulder. "Hey. I'm sorry for dredging up such painful memories for you."

"It's not that." Siobhan sniffs. "Ugh. I'm not this girl. It's just..."

"Just what?"

"I guess I finally admitted to myself that he's never coming back to me." She laughs, and it's tragic. "A part of me always thought he'd eventually come to his senses and realize what he'd given up. Stupid, huh?"

Veronica can't bring herself to offer false platitudes. She does the only thing she can – drags over the garbage can and gestures.

Siobhan snorts and rolls her eyes. But she still pulls back her foot and kicks.

 

* * *

 

**Mars Investigations**

The Mars Investigations logo still inspires a little trickle of pride in Veronica whenever she arrives at the office. Funny how something born out of tragedy grew to become her greatest refuge.

Her legacy.

_So why am I preparing to leave again?_

She readjusts her grip on her lunch and shoulders open the door.

As expected, the outer office is quiet and vacant – par for a typical Saturday afternoon. The wood surfaces gleam thanks to this morning's visit from the cleaning lady, and the faint scent of pine cleaner still lingers.

Her dad's office door is closed, and his muffled voice sounds from behind it, pausing often enough for her to infer he's on a phone call.

_Guess my questions about Siobhan will have to be postponed._

_The Neptune Herald_ – folded and affixed with a yellow sticky note – waits in the center of her desktop. Veronica sets down her lunch and soda, wiping the condensation from her hands on the side of her jeans before picking up the newspaper.

**Why does this woman look so familiar?** is scrawled across the Post-it in red marker.

_Oh hell._

The largest of the four photos – under the "CELEBRITY MAYOR ATTENDS FESTIVAL WITH MYSTERY BLONDE" headline – shows a couple engaged in a passionate clinch.

Veronica's hair is disheveled, and her hands cling to the back of Logan's neck, but her face is hidden from view, mashed up against his.

She remembers the moment. After leaving the Ferris wheel, they'd stopped to say goodbye next to the Test Your Strength attraction. The blinking lights of the game must have camouflaged the photographer's camera flash.

The second photograph is from the same interlude, but a different angle. Logan stares down at her, his large fingers grazing her cheek and hiding her features. Siobhan had been right; he does indeed look as if his every wish is coming true.

Veronica's stomach flutters, and she realizes that she's touching her own cheek. Mimicking his gesture. She sighs and drops the paper.

The wall clock reads twelve forty-one. Just enough time to eat lunch before Mac arrives for their appointment.

A cellophane package of Lays potato chips crinkles as she upends the fast food bag. She rips it open and then carefully unrolls her meatball sub from its paper wrapper.

Skimming the rest of the article while she eats, she finds nothing personally incriminating. The County Supervisor arrived at the Neptunalia for the kickoff, made a speech, cut a ribbon, and left. He was spotted again later, dressed casually and accompanied by an unknown blonde. Together, the couple sampled carnival fare, played games of chance, and engaged in a passionate kisses. "The Mayor" finished off the night by donning a tuxedo and strutting the catwalk for the Philanthropic Society's Bachelor Auction while his new girlfriend watched from stage-side. Finally, he broke all records when a date with him was auctioned off for seventeen thousand dollars.

_New girlfriend? Should I demand a retraction?_

Below the text, two more pictures display – both tiny and taken from a distance – her and Logan laughing by the Ring Toss and holding hands in the midway, respectively.

None of the photos show enough of her face by which to identify her, but the body language is disconcerting. She looks like...a girlfriend.

Veronica lets out a frustrated exhale and slides the newspaper into a desk drawer, piling three manila case files and a heavy stapler on top.

She finishes wolfing down her lunch and manages to clean up her work area in time for her appointment. Her blouse, however, is hopeless.

The inner office door opens and Veronica glances up from where she's dabbing a stain-stick at a meatball-sized splotch on her shirt.

"Hey," her dad says, plucking a lightweight jacket from the coat rack and shrugging it over his shoulders."D'you get a chance to check out that article I left out for you?"

"I did. Wow. That Logan Echolls certainly has a 'type', doesn't he?"

"Seems that way." He plays along. "I have to head out to the Spy Store. Want to tag along?"

"More than I've ever wanted anything in my life, but I have a one o'clock. Can we go afterwards? Or tomorrow?"

"Can't, unfortunately. I caught a job to put in security cameras at a local business, but they want them installed overnight. And being that it's a two and a half hour drive one-way..."

"Hidden cameras?"

Her dad nods. "The better to catch their sticky-fingered employees with. Want me to bring you anything back?"

"More like _everything_. Surprise me."

"Will do. See you in the morning." Her dad kisses her forehead and leaves.

As the door slowly swings shut, Veronica hears him greeting Mac out in the hall.

She glances back down at the meatball stain.

_If I tuck it in, I might be able to hide the mess._

She pulls on her jacket instead, half a second before Mac walks through the entrance. Her companion is in her teens, taller by a good four inches and feminine in a bubblegum-pink floral dress, but sharing Mac’s dark hair, blue eyes and elfin features, Veronica has little doubt as to the girl's identity.

"Is this...?"

"My biological sister, Lauren," Mac answers. "Lauren, this is Veronica Mars, one of my oldest friends."

"Nice to meet you. I've heard so much about you." Lauren says. Her handshake is unexpectedly firm for her young age.

"All of it positive, I hope?" Veronica says with a pointed look at Mac.

"Most of it. But there was that one thing..."

"Oh?" Veronica tilts her head.

The girl's lips widen into a sweet, but mischievous smile. "Kidding! Mac thinks you're the best."

"That's because she's a genius. Have a seat." Veronica motions to the two visitor chairs. "So this is the hacker you mentioned earlier?"

Mac makes a magician's voila gesture.

Veronica smiles and sips soda through her straw, mentally formulating her next words. "You're aware that some of the information I'll be asking you to gather won't be strictly...legal?"

"She's good, Veronica," Mac says. "Maybe even better than I am. She can cover her tracks." She glances at her sister with immense pride.

Lauren rolls her eyes. "Ignore her, nobody is better than Mac. And yes, I'm okay with that."

"Aren't you a little young?"

"I was even younger when I started hacking for you," Mac reminds her. "And she'll be eighteen in October."

Veronica studies the girl, sensing both strength and stubbornness. Competence and commitment. Still, she has to ask, "Are you sure you're up for this?"

"I do this for fun." Lauren meets her gaze directly. "I would be hacking anyway. If I can earn some cash doing what I love, even better."

"But...?"

Mac reads her mind and clarifies. "She wants to earn her own money. So she won't have to justify some of her more...questionable...technology purchases."

"Say no more," Veronica holds up a hand. "Understand completely." She addresses Lauren. "I won't have enough work to hire you part-time. Are you available on an as-needed basis?"

"That works better for me. School starts next week, so I wouldn't want to commit to a heavy schedule. Will a 24-hour turnaround work for you?"

_Compared to what I'm used to from the SDPD tech guys?_ "That will work out perfectly."

"Most of the time I won't need more than a few hours, but I don't want to over-promise." Lauren adds, so confidently that Veronica can't help but remember another fearless blue-eyed teenager.

As they hammer out the wage specifics, Lauren demonstrates that her computer prowess isn't the only trait she shares with her sister. She's also a shrewd negotiator.

_Or a hustler_ , Veronica amends as they finally come to an agreement.

She quickly summarizes the details of the Cook case, and they exchange email addresses, while Mac beams at the girl with a warmth she rarely exhibits publicly.

It's on the tip of Veronica's tongue to ask her friend what she knows about Siobhan Fitzpatrick.

She doesn't. It's too easy to script the other end of the conversation in her head. "You made it clear that Logan's name was off-limits. You're both adults. If you want to know about Logan's past, you need to ask Logan himself."

Despite her curiosity, she's never been the type to discuss boyfriend drama. So she keeps her questions to herself and walks the girls out.

"I'll email you a list of initial assignments within the hour," Veronica tells Lauren.

"Great. My plans for tonight fell through, so I can get right on it."

As they disappear from sight, Veronica calls out "Enjoy your date!"

Mac stops, peeks back around the corner, and flips her off.

With a chuckle, Veronica shuffles back to her desk.

As she sits, she experiences a sudden rush of inexplicable sadness.

_I'm just not accustomed to having time on my hands. That's all._

Up until a week ago, her typical schedule had consisted of long days interviewing witnesses and chasing leads, followed by evenings reviewing current case files, old case files, and cold case files. Whenever she'd needed human contact, Joe had been just a booty-call away.

Taking on more cases might leave her less time to be alone with herself, but it would also tie her to Neptune even longer.  No, she'd better just concentrate on closing the Cook case, so she can move on.

Her maternal uncle Blake in Miami has offered her a bed any time she wants to visit. Or maybe she could try New York City – a part of her has always wanted to live there. Hell, there are detective agencies nationwide. Who couldn't use the services of a small, easy-to-underestimate blonde?

Life in Neptune will go on without her – like it has for the past six years. Business is booming for Dad. Mac, Wallace and Weevil have each other. And Logan. He seems to be all mixed up in their lives now.

She shouldn't have kissed him. Should have turned tail and left the moment she saw his face. Or even better, kept it breezy and professional.

He's going to be hurt. Again. And it's all her fault.

Despite her attempts to manage his expectations, she'd still allowed her heart to lead rather than her head. Had still pressed her mouth – and body – to his.

Which is exactly what makes him so dangerous. Logic and rationality don't stand a chance, when Logan looks at her with those eyes.

_Better the survivable pain now, than the unbearable pain later._ Weren't those his words when he'd shattered her heart six years ago?

_He'll be okay. He'll move on._

_Will he though? The same guy who'd dropped all pretenses and professed his enduring love for me mere minutes into our first conversation in years?_

But he had moved on. At least enough to have become engaged to another woman at one point.

Maybe, after she's gone, Logan and Siobhan will work things out and find their way back to each other. They both deserve to be happy.

The thought steals her breath like a karate chop to the windpipe.

She breathes past the pain.

_That's what I want for him. Happiness and love with somebody who isn't afraid to go all-in. No matter how much that hurts me._

_And isn't that the purest form of love?_

Pushing away that line of thought, she returns her focus to the Cook case.

After emailing Lauren the promised list of research tasks, she connects her cell to her laptop and navigates to the video folder. Locating the video of yesterday's interview with the Rough Riders, she opens it in VLC Media Player.

John Enbom had been on the low end of the detestability-scale for Logan's high school crew. As the heir to the Luxe Air fortune, he could have been unbearable. Mostly, he was forgettable. He tagged along with the other 09ers, contributing often to their numbers, but rarely to their 'very-bad-ideas'.

That was Logan's specialty.

Jeremy Enbom has the height and the same dark coloring as his brother. Their mouths twist into the same configurations when they speak. But while John was blandly handsome, there's an ugliness to Jeremy that can't be attributed merely to his features.

Veronica puts the age difference between the brothers at around seven years – which might explain the attitude. Late-in-life babies are often over-indulged, under-supervised, and have less social empathy as a result.

She studies Jeremy closely on the video. In addition to his bulk, the greasy hair and purplish acne indicate probable steroid use.

_Note to self. Check with Terrence about drug testing._

Of all the boys, he was the most blatantly sexist.

While his teammates had exhibited various degrees of worry, concern, or discomfort with their coach's predicament, Enbom displayed no apprehension whatsoever. His demeanor was calm, relaxed, and mildly amused.

Which makes this morning's confession even more baffling.

_Why?_

It couldn't be fear of the law closing in on him. As far as she's aware, there's no evidence linking any of the players to game fixing.

And he certainly wasn't suffering from crippling guilt over letting his team down. The video clearly establishes that.

Before she can narrow down a motive, her cell rings.

"Hello?"

"Is this Veronica Mars?" She recognizes the voice as one she'd heard only moments earlier in the video.

"Yes?"

"Hi. My name is Riley Woods. I met you yesterday at Hearst. Do you remember me?"

She does. He was the too-hot-for-his-own-good blond shortstop. Total flirt, but harmless. Object of Brandon Solano's (unrequited?) affection.

_He'd better not be calling to hit on me._

"I remember you."

"Good," he says, and she senses his smile on the other end of the line. "So hey. I wanted to catch you alone yesterday, but you walked out with Coach Haldeman."

"You have information for me?"

"More like suspicion, but I didn't want to say anything in front of the team."

"I figured most of you wouldn't. That's why I left you my card. What do you have for me?"

"Nothing concrete, but I have no doubt that the game was thrown."

Interesting. "Who do you suspect?"

"Enbom and Bakeman. Probably Walters, too. You may have noticed them yesterday. The three evolutionarily-stunted roider meatheads."

She grins at his description. "Why them in particular?"

"I knew something was up during the game. At first I just thought they were wasted, but back in the dugout, their eyes weren't red or dilated or anything."

Veronica leans back, propping her feet up on her desk. "Did you question them?"

"Yeah. They played dumb. Or dumber than usual. But I saw them exchanging these glances, and I just knew. They were fucking up on purpose."

"Anything else?"

"Well, there's the money. Enbom has always been loaded, but the other two have been throwing around cash lately."

"How so?"

"You know, expensive shoes. Gadgets. A new TV in their dorm. Bakeman upgraded his piece-of-shit car to a less shitty SUV. And I know for a fact they're both broke and jobless."

"What about Luke Haldeman?" Veronica asks. "Have you noticed him spending more lately?"

"Coach Haldeman? No way. He had nothing to do with it."

"I received an anonymous call yesterday from somebody who claimed that his hand signals were wrong."

"That's bullshit. It was probably one of those assholes. Bakeman, I'd guess. He's been butt-hurt ever since Coach Haldeman got on his case for being a lazy piece of shit."

Veronica agrees. She'd considered the same when she heard the voices on the video.

"Well, that's all I had, so..." Riley begins.

"Hold on. That's not all I have." Veronica recaps the morning's events with Terrence Cook and Jeremy Enbom.

The other end of the line is silent while Riley processes the information. Finally, he blows out a sharp breath. "I don't believe it. Enbom and Coach weren't even close."

"What about the opposite? Did you ever notice any animosity between them? Anything that would explain why Jeremy might be out to get Mr. Cook?"

"No. Nothing. Coach seems to get along with everyone. Why?"

"I'm just trying to put this together. Money seems like a likely motive for throwing the game, but the confession seems counter-intuitive. Wouldn't he get kicked off the team?"

"Definitely. And expelled from school, too."

"So he has nothing to gain, and everything to lose."

"Nothing to gain. But maybe nothing to lose, either."

"Why do you say that?"

"He doesn't give a damn about anything. He's already bored with baseball. He treated it like a hobby. For the rest of us, it's our life."

"But if he gets expelled...?"

"Then he takes his rightful place at daddy's airline. Or hell, just lives comfortably for life off the interest of his trust fund."

He has a point. So it's more about what Enbom has to gain, rather than lose. More money? Revenge? Power?

"What about Bakeman and Walters?" Veronica asks.

"No. They're both here on scholarships. They have everything to lose."

"So if Enbom took the hit..."

"They'd both owe him forever." Riley finishes her thought. "If I were you, I'd start with Walters. He can be a decent guy, most of the time."

"And the other two?"

"Complete dicks. Enbom thinks he's untouchable, and Bakeman is Mr. Roid Rage."

Veronica thanks him and asks him to call her back if he thinks of anything else. With nothing left to do on the case tonight, she slips her laptop into her bag, and locks up the office.

She wishes she had somewhere – anywhere – to go, other than home.

Guilty – and yes, jealous – over Logan's date with Madison, she could really use a distraction tonight – whether a daddy/daughter movie night or dinner with friends.

But there is no one. Her dad is working an all-nighter, and Wallace, Mac, and Jackie have their own dates to worry about.

She wishes again that things had turned out differently with Siobhan. This would be the perfect opportunity to meet for drinks, if only they could keep the conversation centered on their mutual hate for Tad Wilson. But, assuming Siobhan would even still want to hang out, drinking leads to commiseration. And what could be more awkward than commiserating over the same guy?

_Nope. Looks like I have a date with Mama Leone's and Netflix tonight._

The thought has never seemed so lonely.

 

* * *

 

**Taste Restaurant**

Two years ago, Madison would have demanded this table.

Positioned dead center, like a sun in a solar system, it draws the eye of every patron entering the restaurant. But two arc-shaped glass partitions – hand-crafted in shades of red, gold and amber – surround it like a pair of parenthesis, creating an atmosphere of exclusivity and intimacy.

Two years ago, waiting alone at this table for a date who might not even show would have been the ultimate humiliation.

Tonight, she's remarkably sanguine. Even after three of her former "friends" have stopped by to say hello – each making half-hearted attempts to camouflage their inner glee with outward displays of pity.

Maybe she's well-and-truly beyond the backstabbing and social climbing.

Or maybe she's still feeling the spa afterglow. Say what you will about Logan Echolls, he does not skimp on his auction packages.

The car had arrived at noon, whisking her off to Spa Enchanté where she'd spent the better part of the day being pampered. Wrapped and waxed. Cleansed, scrubbed, and purified. Massaged, mani'd, pedi'd, and styled.

Her mom used to tease her. "Madison, the mirror will still be there when you get home from school." A fruitless attempt to nudge her from obsessing over every blemish, every stray eyebrow hair.

She would respond with predictable teen dramatics. "Mom! How can I be expected to compete with the other girls with this zit on my nose? I need to be flawless."

"Compete for what? What's the prize?"

She'd never been able to articulate an answer, but she'd felt it in her bones. Like a low-rent imposter trying to pass among the beautiful people.

She wasn't athletic like Shelly. She didn't exude charisma like Lilly Kane or Carrie Bishop. She wasn't the sweet girl like Meg Manning. Or the smart girl, like Angie Dahl or Veronica Mars. She had no noticeable advantages over the others. But she could control every calorie and carb that passed her lips. And she could eradicate the imperfections.

After her mom's death, she’d started avoiding mirrors. When the makeup could no longer hide the scabs and purplish bruising. When she dropped down to ninety pounds and her sallow skin tightened like shrink wrap around her gaunt skull.

When she'd destroyed her only asset, and flawless was no longer even in the realm of possibilities.

If she couldn't be beautiful, what was the point of existing?

Even after – on the road back to health – mirror time had consisted of the bare minimum required to create a neat, presentable appearance, all while evading her own eyes.

Today's spa session had concluded with a deep tissue massage, leaving her as limp as over-cooked pasta. Afterwards, in the private changing room, she'd slipped out of her robe and into her short, aquamarine sheath dress.

The soft lighting and the soothing scent of lavender combined to intensify her feeling of rejuvenation, and she found herself staring at her reflection, unable to look away.

Unlike the old days, she didn't search out her flaws. Didn't rip herself apart. While her self-worth was no longer tied to her appearance, she couldn't help but marvel at the gleaming hair and glowing, radiant skin. This was what contentment looked like.

She's never looked better.

_Shame it has to be wasted on Logan Echolls._

A small part of her hopes he stands her up – she's not deluded enough to believe this will be fun evening.

A larger part prays he arrives.

She hadn't wanted this date, but she can't pass up her only opportunity to spend time with him. To have him as a captive audience.

_Because how much easier would my life be if I could regain my friendship with Logan?_

A break in the hum of conversation – a subtle shifting of the room's energy – signals her date's arrival.

Logan seems impervious to the grandeur of the locale. He pauses once to greet Mr. and Mrs. Gant, squeezing the older man's shoulder. Pauses again, when a local news anchor intercepts him, reaching out a hand to shake, and a third time when the fourth Mrs. Taft slinks up to whisper in his ear – something suggestive, from his resulting sly grin.

It disintegrates as he draws closer to Madison.

He's taller up close than she remembered. Long and lean in his black-on-black-on-black suit. Madison hates herself for the trickle of excitement in her belly.

He's still a beautiful man. Even better looking than he was in high school – which is saying a lot.

His obvious disdain for her would only have added to his allure years ago. Who knows why? Maybe stemming from a desire to conquer and humble those who treated her like dirt. Or maybe she could only respect men who saw right through her for the utter fraud she was.

She's a work in progress, but she's trying to outgrow that mentality. Her boyfriend looks at her with respect and affection, and there's nothing weak about him.

Despite all of the positive changes he's made since high school, Logan Echolls is still a first-class drama queen. He flops into the beige upholstered chair opposite, as if facing a firing squad. "I'm here. Happy?"

He waves a beckoning hand at a nearby waiter and orders a gin and tonic. "Keep them coming."

It's hard not to laugh at his sullen expression. "I told you when you called that we didn't have to go through with this," she says.

"Far be it from me to deny you what you've...purchased." He spits out the last word with a sneer, and this time she does laugh.

"Drop the martyr act, Logan. Nobody held a gun to your head to make you participate."

"You know why I did it."

"Your foundation will be getting a hefty check for your inconvenience."

The waiter returns with Logan's drink, and it's hard to tear her eyes away from his Adam's apple as he takes an over-long swallow.

He leans in, pinning her with his intense gaze. "Just so we're clear, my purchase price does not include sex."

Asshole.

She withstands his stare, pulling out the bitchface she'd hoped to permanently retire, and leans forward herself. "And just so _I'm_ clear, I've already had sex with you, and it wasn't any good. I'm afraid you didn't live up to your reputation, Logan."

His eyes flash dangerously and, of course, he can't resist defending his manhood. "I was drunk. And not very into you."

"Yeah. I gathered that when you didn't wait to finish before passing out on top of me. Relax. I'm not looking for a repeat non-performance."

Logan's lips twist into something cruel and ugly. A side of him she hasn't seen since high school.

_If I don't stop baiting him, I'm going to be on the receiving end of the legendary Echolls temper._

Madison retreats behind her menu before things get out of hand.

Since Logan's paying, she considers ordering the eighty dollar truffle tagliatelle with butter and parmigiano. But that would be spiteful, and isn't she here to mend fences?

_Settle down and put yourself in his shoes._

She's never forgotten the party at the Echolls house junior year. How the lights went on and there was the King of Neptune High draped all over Veronica Mars.

Accustomed to his asshole ways, Madison had waited with hushed expectation for Logan to erupt. For him to shove Veronica away, denouncing her as his slutty side-piece.

What followed had stunned everyone.

Logan had not only publicly claimed Veronica as his girlfriend, but he’d been willing to sacrifice every last one of his friends for her benefit.

It was the most romantic thing Madison had ever seen.

And it had enraged her. She'd known with a dismal sense of certainty that no man would ever love her enough to defend her that way.

She has yet to be proven wrong.

Even now, as happy as she is in her relationship, her boyfriend's hesitancy to go public troubles her. Not that she doesn't understand his reasoning.

_But if he really loved me, wouldn't he be willing to make a grand gesture?_

She sips her ice water, hoping to ease the lump in her throat.

If Caitlin is to be believed, the Aspen hookup had been the final nail in the coffin for Logan's relationship with Veronica. They'd done nothing to feel guilty about. They were both drunk. Both were single, consenting and lonely.

But it has to be a slap in the face to Logan. He'd lost his Great Love because of a single night of crappy sex.

She can't excuse his attitude, but she can understand it.

She closes her menu, and – as if waiting for the signal – their waiter steps up. He introduces himself as Andy, but he's a dead ringer for Channing Tatum. He's friendly, but cloyingly so, addressing them with a familiarity that probably brings in the tips, but feels put on and phony.

Logan raises an eyebrow, obviously having the same thoughts, but when he meets Madison's eyes, his expression is blank.

She orders seared sea scallops and Logan orders the prime rib.

The waiter takes Logan's empty glass, returning moments later with a fresh drink.

_He polished off his first that quickly?_

Maybe she does partially share the blame for the demise of Logan's relationship. Just a little.

Aspen would have remained a secret forever, if only she hadn't been so eager to rub it in Veronica's face.

"Logan..." She glances up. "I have something to say."

He meets her eyes, his sullen expression transforming into something considerably warmer when he notices somebody behind her. He beckons the person over.

The shoes are high and black – in a style that could only be described as fierce. They're paired with a snug black dress, and Madison's gut twists into a tight ball as her eyes lift to Cindy Mackenzie's face.

_Mac. That's what they call her._

Logan pushes back his chair, standing and pulling the girl into a hug. He presses an affectionate kiss to her temple, before releasing her. "What are you doing here?"

"Bachelor's auction date." Mac looks as if she'd rather be anywhere than be here.

"Who's the lucky guy? Is it your ex? The vet?"

"Bronson Pope? No. Not him." She drops her eyes.

"Too bad. I always liked him. So who else was up for bidding?" Logan glances at the ceiling, trying to remember the lineup. "Well, there was Vinnie Van Lowe."

Mac glares. "Congratulations, you've managed to suggest the only ‘ _it-could-be-worse’_ -scenario that can make me feel good about being on a date with Dick Casablancas."

Madison fights the urge to throw up in her mouth. Since her encounter with Veronica outside of Java the Hut, she's been trying not to think about how close she'd come to being raped that night at Shelly's 10th grade End of the Year Party.

But the idea of being in the same restaurant as Dick nauseates her. She scans the room – what she can see of it – but he's nowhere in sight. He's either on the other side of one of the partitions, or in the rear dining room.

"You and Dick?" Logan is smirking in a gleeful, 'I-can-get-years-of-material-out-of-this' manner. "Can't say I ever saw that coming."

"It isn't. Coming, I mean. This is the farthest thing from romantic. In fact, I blame you for my predicament."

Logan knocks back the remainder of his drink, sets down his glass, and folds his arms over his chest with a smug grin. "I can't wait to hear this."

Mac shoves him lightly on the chest. "This wouldn't be necessary if you would keep your secretary at City Hall during work hours and not over at Casablancas."

"Don't let her hear you call her a secretary." Logan says. "Anyway, Gia and Dick are broken up."

"For how long this time? Everybody knew she would end up bidding on him at the auction. That's why the office took up a collection to keep her from winning."

Logan laughs hard. "Come on. How bad can it be? I work with her every day, and I only want to kill her once or twice a week."

"That's because they're not making out and acting like children in the middle of your office."

Madison has never had an opportunity to sit back and observe Cindy Mackenzie.

She has mom's eyes. And the way she juts out her chin to make a point is the same.

In fact, she looks even more like Ellen Sinclair than Lauren does, which is saying a lot.

Her sinuses prickle and her eyes fill. She dabs the moisture away with the corner of her napkin.

Is Cindy short for Cynthia? How can she not know her own true name?

_Because I never asked._

_Because I was jealous of the Sunday dates and how Mom would return so happy and energized. When I'd always been her greatest source of disappointment and aggravation._

"Hello, I'm Cindy Mackenzie." She imagines introducing herself. It feels alien and uncomfortable. "Cynthia Mackenzie, pleased to meet you?" A little better.

The real Madison Sinclair is still talking to Logan in a quiet tone. He nods and sips from his drink. And where did that even come from? Andy the waiter must really want a good tip.

_She hasn't glanced at me even once._

In the agonizing days following her mother's stroke, Madison had been overwhelmed. Dad was away on business, and underestimating the seriousness of the problem. Lauren was withdrawn in a way that scared her, and the last thing she'd needed to deal with was the interloper who'd "stolen her mother." The girl who'd never hidden her contempt when they'd pass each other in the Sinclair driveway.

She'd had Mac banned from visiting.

She has more perspective now, and can acknowledge how wrong she was. How her mother's feelings should have come first, and how deeply she hurt both women.

It took some time, but she's glad Lauren conspired to get Mac in. That mom had the opportunity to say goodbye to her true firstborn daughter.

On the list of people to make amends to, Mac has always been near the top. Up until now, there hasn't been an opportunity. Lauren always acts as the go-between, allowing her two "sisters" to continue avoiding each other when business takes Dad out of town.

"Well," Mac says. "I'd better find my table before my date ends up leaving with the bartender or something."

"Wouldn't that be a good thing?" Logan laughs, and pulls her in for a quick goodbye hug.

Madison feels that old tug of jealousy in her belly again. He's never smiled at her that way. Has never shown her even the tiniest bit of affection. Not when they were "friends." Not when she'd get on her knees in ninth grade to try to help him get over Lilly. Part of her has always yearned for his approval, and she's never going to get it. What he – and everyone else she cares about – gives so freely to Mac.

She's come a long way, but she's far from perfect.

She acts before she can lose her nerve, sliding her chair back and rising to her feet. "Mac, wait!"

The eyes that turn to acknowledge her presence are chips of blue ice. "There is nothing you could say that I want to hear."

"I understand," Madison says. "I only want to apologize."

"Why?" Mac asks. "What do you get out of it?"

"Nothing." Which isn't exactly true. She's trying to reverse the person she used to be. Rebalance the karmic scales.

Mac's voice is as frigid as her eyes. "You don't get to use Ellen's memory to make yourself feel better."

Heads turn at nearby tables to see what the commotion is about.

"Trust me," Madison's voice lowers. "No amount of absolution is ever going to make me feel better. Nothing is ever going to bring Mom back. Or Mrs. F—“  She trails off, exhales with a head shake. "It's about becoming a better person."

"I don't care what kind of person you are. Just stay away from me."

"Okay. I will."

_Don't get frustrated, Madison. She's not obligated to grant you forgiveness._

"I know that what I did was wrong."

"You mean when you refused to allow me to visit my own mother on her death bed?" Mac's voice increases in sharpness and volume, and half the restaurant is watching now.

Madison pinches the bridge of her nose. _Doesn't she get that I lost her too?_

If she'd gone the traditional route – through a Twelve Step program, she'd probably have the tools to handle situations like this. As it is, she's on her own.

"I apologize. If there was any way I could take back that decision so you and mom could have more time together, I would. If there's anything I can do now to make amends, I'm all ears. But otherwise, all I can offer is a sincere apology."

Mac stares, surprised or even shocked, as if she'd been expecting the claws to come out. She gives a silent nod, and turns to leave.

Madison lets out her breath – a little prematurely, it seems – because Mac turns back around, a new intensity to her gaze.

"You want to make amends? Apologize to my parents for rejecting them every time they've tried to reach out to you."

A spark flickers to life deep inside Madison. A sort of warmth that spreads throughout her body. Something like hope, maybe.

She was at her lowest point the last time the Mackenzies tried to reach out to her. Numbing herself with alcohol and drugs and sex. She’d had no need or desire for parental bonding.

_Or forgiveness, if I'm being honest. I didn't want to be let off the hook._

But she's healthy now. She has room in her life for her birth parents.

"I'll call them first thing in the morning."

Mac – who's already starting to walk away again – freezes for a second, and then continues on.

Madison sits, reaching for her water glass with a shaky hand.

Logan is watching her with a considering glance. She ignores him, concentrating on spreading her napkin across her lap.

Time to get to know the birth parents...

A few years back, she'd wanted nothing to do with the Mackenzies. The family who'd never fought for her. Now, she's almost excited by the prospect.

 

* * *

 

_Stay calm, girl._

It takes every ounce of self-control for Mac to keep walking. To not to turn around and forbid Madison to go anywhere near her parents.

The parquet floor absorbs the thrusts of her frustrated footfalls.

It wasn't supposed to turn out this way. She'd wielded the challenge as a weapon to test Madison's commitment to make amends.

She hadn't expected acquiescence. And certainly not eagerness.

_Why did I open my big mouth?_

She wants to take it back. To erect a barrier around her parents protecting them from this woman.

_But how could I ever look mom in the eyes and explain that her other daughter was willing to reach out and I stopped her?_

Her parents have handled Madison's rejection with patience and grace. They've even defended her when Mac was angry on their behalf.

But there's an envelope of photographs in her mother's bedside drawer. Madison – from birth through adulthood – carefully curated by Ellen Sinclair after Lauren's research broke the whole baby-switch story.

She's come across her mother more than once flipping through those photos, and has had to fake an incoming text message in order to give her mom time to compose herself. To wipe away the wetness in her eyes.

Mac can never forgive the girl, but her parents shouldn't be punished. They've wanted to connect for so long.

Just in case, she won't tell them about this conversation. No point getting their hopes up, just to have Madison flake out.

For now, she has other problems to deal with. Like finding her date.

Of course he's here somewhere. For any other girl, he would get the night or the time or the location wrong, but she's never been that lucky.

A second dining room angles off of the first at eleven o'clock. She sweeps her gaze from left to right, and there – peeking out above a large menu – is the shaggy blond surfer hair she'd know anywhere.

To an outside observer, Dick Casablancas would appear handsome and harmless.

Outside observers don't know dick about Dick, and what a pain in the ass he is.

"Yo, Cindy!" he calls out as she approaches, and she grits her teeth. He only calls her that to annoy her.

He rises from his seat to greet her, pulling out her chair with a flourish.

"What the hell is this, Dick?"

"What? For seven thousand big ones, you get the gentleman treatment."

"If I threw in another thousand could I get the silent treatment?"

"Way to make a guy feel special, Cindy."

"I'm not here to make you feel special, Richard."

She sits, rolling her eyes as he pushes in her chair.

_Bet Gia would have been overjoyed to receive the "gentleman treatment"._

Dick flops down, leans back, and tries to casually throw his elbow over the back of his chair. It's not wide enough, so he fumbles mid-air for a moment, before awkwardly dropping his arm to his side. "I'll admit Mac, I was pretty surprised to find out you won the bid for me. It was the way those gold shorts framed my ass, wasn't it? I wore them for you special tonight. Under my pants."

"And there goes what was left of my appetite."

"What's wrong with you? You seem even surlier than usual."

"Run-in with my least favorite person. Your ex, Madison."

Dick grins. "What did Madi want?"

"To get on my last nerve."

"Want me to talk to her for you?"

"Absolutely not!" Mac picks up her menu, running her eyes over the pages until she finds a section of vegan entrees.

_You can do this. It's just one dinner. With Peter Pan's less mature brother_

* * *

Dick swallows a bite of pasta and points his fork at Mac. "So you're saying I should reimburse everyone who contributed to your sacrificial date?"

"It would be the right thing to do," Mac says, "And congratulations on the four-syllable word."

"I know all kinds of four-syllable words." He counts off on his fingers. "Penetration. Masturbation. Fellatio.  Cunn—“

"Stop!" Mac puts up a hand. "There are..." She glances around for children, coming up empty-handed. Nobody is paying attention. "...People are trying to eat."

"As I was saying..." He flashes a lopsided smirk. "Why didn't you guys just ask me to stop having Gia come by the office?"

She sips from her Barbera d'Asti. "Because you're a child, Dick. If I asked you to stop having her around twice a week, you'd make it four times. If I asked you to keep it out of the office, you'd have sex on my desk."

"You really think I'd..." Dick pauses and his offended expression transforms into a slow grin. "Actually, I probably would. That would be funny."

"No." Mac shakes her head. "It really wouldn't be."

"Just kidding."

He's not, but arguing won't get them anywhere.

"Fine, Mac," Dick sighs. "I'll tell Gia not to come by the office anymore."

"So you're back together?"

"Nah, but she'll come running back any day now."

"And you'll take her back?"

"Yeah, why not? She's a lot of fun." Dick shrugs. "I mean, it's not some kind of looooove connection or anything."

"Then why do you keep getting back together?"

"I don't know. She likes me. And she's not always trying to change me or anything."

"Wow. What a premise to build a relationship upon."

"That's what I'm saying."

 

* * *

 

 

**Café Bliss**

Jackie arrives at Cafe Bliss two minutes before the prearranged meeting time, pausing beside an empty hostess stand.

Soft music and dim lighting sets a seductive atmosphere over the establishment. A glass window-wall looks out over a patio dining area and, further off, waves crashing into the shore.

Diners – squeezed together in pairs around too-tiny tables – share entrees, entwine fingers while speaking in hushed tones, and (in the case of one May/December couple in a dark corner), play an aggressive game of footsie.

Wallace sits in a small alcove, focused on his cell.

An efficient-looking hostess approaches, willowy and striking with dark features and thick brows set against pale skin. "Welcome to Cafe Bliss. Do you have a reservation?"

Jackie holds up a hand. "I see my date. Thank you."

Perhaps sensing her watching, Wallace glances up from his phone, meeting her eyes.

Her breath catches.

_Go time._

_You can do this girl. You're smart, passionate and attractive. Any man would be lucky to date you._

She silently repeats this mantra as she navigates the room, chin up and staring straight ahead. More than one man ogles her, so her attempts to appear confident must be working.

Wallace stands with an unconscious tug on his necktie. He regards her, eyes sweeping her figure in a manner suggesting that, despite old resentments, he's still a man.

She knows she looks great tonight. Her red silk chiffon dress is a study in contrasts. Both dressy and casual. Relaxed and sexy. One-shouldered on the top, asymmetrical at the bottom. The fabric drapes softly around her arm and skims the knee on the right side, but bares the left shoulder and thigh. A fabric sash tied in a small bow at the left hip finishes the look.

"Hello, Wallace."

"Jackie." He nods and swallows; pulls out her chair.

"I see you're still a gentleman."

"A man doesn't forget the lessons his mama teaches him," he mutters.

They don't hug or touch in any way.

Jackie explains how her father's legal troubles brought her back. Wallace answers in monosyllables.

She details Veronica's progress on the investigation. He grunts a response.

While not outwardly hostile, he's clearly still bitter over the way things ended.

Eight blind dates since her split with Kevin two years ago, and not a single one compares to tonight's awkwardness. Try as she might, she can't coax him into conversation.

Her heart shrinks in her chest. This isn't her Wallace.

She's thought of him occasionally over the years. His laugh. The woodsy citrus of his cologne. That cute little thing he did with his voice.

In her imagination, he'd remained much as he was when she left - happy, optimistic, still swimming in big hair and over-sized polo shirts. Sure, she'd edited in a few laugh lines, because when wasn't Wallace smiling? She'd pictured him with a wife. A child. A cat. A minivan.

She'd never imagined him like this. Cold. Closed off. Petulant.

He looks great, though. Sexy even, with his scruffy chin and tightly cropped hair.

_And why don't I remember his eyes being this shade of amber?_

She hadn't planned on contacting Wallace when she arrived in Neptune. She'd hoped to get in and get out with a minimal amount of disruption.

Michael's happy shrieks while playing with his grandfather, his glee at having miles of beaches to run on, the widening of his eyes upon seeing the various options for organized sports at the Community Park – all of those had combined to make Jackie pause.

Her employer hadn't taken well to her unscheduled jaunt to California. They’d issued an ultimatum – be back by Monday, or we'll have to let you go. She'd been forced to resign.

Her mom's living in Pittsburgh now with Derek. School doesn't start for another week. She's not dating anyone, and most of her communication with her girlfriends is via text and email anyway, due to work schedules. There's nothing stopping her from staying here.

When she discussed the idea with the family, her father and Michael broke out in identical smiles – essentially sealing the deal (and forcing her to deal with the Wallace situation).

"So is this your first time doing this bachelor's auction thing?"

"Yes."

_Ask a closed-ended question..._

"What convinced you to sign up?"

"To raise money for the basketball camp I work at."

_Why did I let Dana talk me out of cancelling this pointless date? If he can't be receptive even to small talk..._

With Dad in jail awaiting arraignment, and Wallace's utter lack of interest in spending time together, this is the last place she should be.

She sips her merlot and fingers the bold statement necklace Dana insisted on lending her.

She'd arrived in Neptune all prepared to hate her father's much younger girlfriend, but the woman's natural class and low-key manner made that all but impossible. In their short acquaintance, they've become something like friends.

Add in Veronica and Mac, and she has the makings of a social circle.

And maybe that's more important than what _isn't_ going on here.

Her phone sits on her lap. One discreet text, and Dana will call with a manufactured emergency.

_Not yet, though. Not without giving this an honest chance._

Meals are ordered and delivered, and Jackie continues carrying the weight of the conversation.

"I'm happy you came," she says. "I was worried you wouldn't."

Wallace's upper lip lifts in a 'what-kind-of-man-do-you-think-I-am' sneer. "I signed up for this process knowing there wouldn't be an escape clause if I wasn't happy with the results. And I keep my commitments."

_Unlike me – the unspoken implication._

"I deserve that, I guess."

He lets out a bitter laugh. "You guess?"

Jackie lowers her fork, and looks him in the eye. "I've never once second-guessed my decision to return to New York and be a mother to my son. It's the best choice I've ever made."

For all his attitude, Wallace can't entirely conceal the sting.

"But..." Jackie continues. "...one of my biggest regrets is that you were hurt as a result. I'm sorry, Wallace. Truly." She entreats him with her eyes, and he rips his gaze away first.

They eat in silence, but she barely tastes her lobster.

Finally, Wallace sighs. "So how is your son doing? Where'd you leave him tonight?" Another dig, but she doesn't take the bait.

"Michael is with my dad's girlfriend, Dana. He's eight years old and a whiz at math."

Wallace chews and swallows. "His name is Michael? You never mentioned that."

"How? Should I have interrupted while you were vowing to never forgive me? Or should I have chased you through the airport when you were storming off in a rage?"

"Can you blame me?" Wallace drops his fork with a clatter that makes heads turn. "I was willing to give up everything to be with you."

"For a lie, Wallace. There was no Paris. No Sorbonne."

"I didn't care. I would have stayed in a hovel to be with you."

_If he cared so little, why is he still this angry?_ She sighs and stares into her wine glass. "I couldn't allow you to do that."

"It wasn't up to you!" Wallace hisses.

"Wasn't it?" She leans in, and her voice gains the same intensity. "I didn't get a say in whether you threw away your life and your scholarship?"

"It was my life!"

"And I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if you'd thrown it away on me."

Wallace glowers at her.

She glowers right back.

Her heart races and she realizes she's enjoying this.  They never argued like this when they were dating.

"You know, you need to own your share of the blame, Wallace."

"Blame?" His eyebrows shoot up, and his voice lowers dangerously. "In case you forgot, I was the injured party."

"I. Tried. To. Spare. You." she fires back.

"How? By taking off in the night? Without even a goodbye?"

"No, by turning you down. Over and over again. But you wouldn't take ‘No’ for an answer."

He leans his head forward, stabbing the table with his index finger. "Because I knew you loved me."

She inhales, startled by his intensity. "I did. But I loved my child more. I made the decision to go back while you were still off in Chicago licking your wounds."

He doesn't answer, but his jaw flexes and he feigns interest in a black-and-white cityscape on a nearby wall.

"My mind was made up. I knew exactly what I had to do the moment I graduated. And there you were, coming in to my job every day, and sitting in my section. Wearing down my resolve."

"So you lied."

"Yes. I lied!" she snaps. "I made up a story about the Sorbonne, thinking that if you knew I was going away – that we couldn't possibly last for longer than a few more weeks –  you would give up and I could make a clean break."

"Why didn't you just tell me the truth?"

"Vanity?" Jackie gives an embarrassed shrug. "If I was never going to see you again, I wanted to be remembered fondly. Your high school girlfriend, Jackie, who went off to take Paris by storm. Not the girl who'd abandoned her own child to live it up in Neptune."

Wallace doesn't speak, but his demeanor shifts from one of tightly wound tension, to something more introspective.

"It just wasn't our time." Jackie says softly.

Wallace nods, avoiding her eyes by staring at his plate as he slices off a bite of his cheese ravioli with long elegant fingers.

"Then."

His gaze snaps back up – flickers of surprise, mistrust, interest – drops to his plate again.

Jackie pushes further. "You look great Wallace. You've matured into a very handsome man."

"Thank you," he says. He doesn't return the compliment, but his eyes skim over her face and down her neck to her bare shoulder.

"I hear you're a high school basketball coach now. How do you like it?"

"It pays the bills. And, unlike engineering, I'm good at it."

"You always used to light up when you were on the court or talking about it," she says. "I'm glad you kept doing what you loved."

He takes another bite, and then his curiosity gets the better of him. "So what did you end up doing with your life?"

"Well, I had to work my way through school at the diner, but I ended up going into fashion buying."

For the first time, he almost smiles. "And why doesn't that surprise me in the least?"

"In fact, yesterday I was offered a position at Swan's Department Store."

Wallace freezes, wine glass halfway to his mouth. "You mean Swan's in Neptune?"

"Yes."

He looks way too vulnerable. "But you won't be here long enough for a job. Veronica will save the day, and your dad will get his job back, and then you can go back to the city?"

"I'm not going back to the city. I enrolled Michael in school. He starts on Monday."

"So you're sticking around." His voice is flat, and he's avoiding her eyes again.

His hand is right there, flat on the table. She could reach out and touch it.

She doesn't.

"I came back to support my dad, but I'm staying for my son. And because there are bridges I need to rebuild – with my father, and with you."

She can tell the comment on the tip of his tongue is about the bridges being too burnt to rebuild. He bites it back, asking instead, "You're living with your father?"

She takes another gulp of her water – why is her mouth so dry tonight? "And his girlfriend. For now. I don't start work until Wednesday, so I thought I'd use Monday and Tuesday to apartment hunt."

"There's a two-bedroom unit for rent in my building," Wallace says and immediately looks as if he wants to kick himself.

She could let him off the hook, but Jackie Cook isn't one to let any advantage slip by. She plucks his cell from where it sits on the edge of the table.

"I'm adding my info to your Contacts. Call me with the name and number of the leasing manager." She finishes, and dials her own cell in order to capture his phone number.

Their hands brush as she returns his phone, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

_If dinner is this hard, how will we survive three dance lessons and a night out?_

The hostess leads a couple past their table and Wallace's eyes widen.

"Oh HELL no," he curses under his breath. "Oh HELL no."

"What?"

He speaks in a whisper. "Don't look now, but that was my ex sister-in-law, Heidi."

"So? You're single, right? Or did I misread something."

He holds up one finger to ask her to wait a second, and waves the waiter over. "I need the check, please. Quickly."

He doesn't ask if she's done eating, although she supposes it doesn't matter. She was only picking at her food, anyway. She scans the room for the couple who brought out this anxiety in Wallace. When she locates them, next to a wide column, it's to find the woman aiming a phone in her direction. The telltale light of a flash goes off.

"Wallace? Why did that strange woman just take a picture of me?"

"To send to my ex-wife."

The waiter arrives with the check before she has a chance to question that statement. Wallace doesn't allow him to walk away, instead handing him a hundred, and telling him to keep the change.

"Come on," Wallace shocks her by reaching for her hand. He drops it immediately when she rises from her seat to follow.

"God, I do not need a scene tonight." Wallace mumbles, moving towards the door.

"You actually think your ex would come here?"

"Typically, no. But when she learns I'm out with you, all bets are off."

Several couples wait in the restaurant's foyer, and Wallace presses a hand to her shoulder to guide her through the crowd. Of course it happens to be the bare shoulder, and the warmth of his palm is like fire to her skin.

_Get a grip, girl. It's just a hand._

They step out of the air conditioning into the warm summer night, and Wallace shoves his hands into his pockets.

She misses the contact instantly. "That's not normal behavior, Wallace."

He slows his pace, "I'd like nothing more than to avoid this conversation, but Heidi, with that cell phone photo, just dragged you into the drama. Whether you like it or not."

"I don't understand."

"You were always a bone of contention in my marriage."

"Why?"

"I guess Jane never really got over what I did at that Sadie Hawkins dance." He purposely avoids her eyes. “No matter how much I apologized, or tried to prove my commitment to her, any time I'd make any kind of constructive suggestion, she would drag you into the argument. _'I bet Jackie always listened. Jackie would never embarrass you at a party. Jackie always picked the right thing to wear.'_ You know. That kind of stuff."

"I'm sorry, Wallace," she says.

"Not your fault. I'm the one who acted like a dog. She used to check my phone records to make sure I wasn't making plans to run off to New York."

"This is me," he says as they stop beside a silver Honda. "I'm sorry I had to cut our date short. I'll...make it up to you. Somehow."

"It's okay. Just be sure to call me about that apartment."

She takes a chance, spreading her arms wide for a hug.

Wallace stares at her for so long she starts to feel like a fool for even trying. Then he moves a step closer.

He opens his arms, and they both hesitate, unsure how the pieces are supposed to fit together. They laugh nervously, and then move together to hug.

It's an awkward embrace, neither squeezing too tightly.

She's hyper-aware of his cheek next to hers. The way his fingers lightly touch his skin.

He releases her, steps back and gets into his car.

Jackie waits until he's driven away before burying his face in her hands.

_Why does everything have to be so hard?_

  

 

* * *

 

 

**Taste Restaurant**

Madison exits the Women's room a second before Dick comes out of the Men's.

Their eyes make contact and her stomach heaves.

_He drugged my drink. He would have..._

"Hey." Dick reaches for her arm and she sidesteps.

Nope. She's already met today's quota for awkward confrontations with Logan and Mac.

Soon, she will sit down with Dick and have a serious conversation about consent, but it won't be tonight.

She ducks around him and hurries away.

"Madi, wait!" He calls out.

The hallway is too long, and Dick's footsteps approach quickly from behind.

Claustrophobia washes over her, and she picks up her pace. "Leave me alone, Dick," she answers without turning.

"I have to talk to you for a sec!" he says, insistent.

"I said no."

Her waiter rounds the corner and she runs right into him. Holding on to her forearms, he shifts so that his body is between her and Dick and lowers his voice to almost a whisper.

"Is this man scaring you?"

"Yes. Kind of."

"I'll have him escorted out."

Madison sighs. "No, that would embarrass his date. Can you just keep him away from me?"

"I'd be happy to," the man answers.

_Somebody's getting a huge tip._

"Come on, Madi. Why you wanna be that way?" Dick calls as she walks away.

Dessert is waiting at the table, and Logan's disappointment at her return could not be more obvious.

"Oh get over yourself, Echolls," Madison snaps. "Do you think I want to be here any more than you do?"

He lifts a brow. "Well, you bid more than some people earn in a year, so pardon my confusion."

_Well, when you look at it that way._ "It was a misunderstanding. I actually have a boyfriend."

Logan snorts. "Right."

"Believe what you want." She idly twists the silver bangle on her wrist. "I'm in a very happy relationship."

The corner of his lip turns up in a skeptical smirk. "Well, don't keep me in suspense. Who is the unfortunate sucker?"

Madison swallows. All she has to do is reveal a name to prove her intentions are honorable.

She forks nervously at her lava cake. "We're waiting for the right time to go public."

"So you've made the guy up."

She exhales and takes a moment to choose her words. "Think logically, Logan. If I were harboring any kind of romantic feelings for you, wouldn't it be in my best interest to be single? What do I have to gain by inventing a boyfriend?"

"To put me at ease? Or you're hoping to trade up?" He gives a one-armed shrug. "So tell me, what did this great guy of yours have to say about this date? You did tell him about it, right?"

"Before I even bid. He's been very understanding because he realizes I was backed into a corner."

This sparks Logan's interest. He leans forward. "Backed into a corner, how?"

"I had this insurance payout check, and in the heat of a disagreement, I mentioned bidding on you. I didn't mean it – at all – but you know Mrs. Caldwell?"

"The Dowager of Bitchingham? Yeah. My mom used to jump through hoops trying to impress her." His bored mask slips, displaying just a flicker of sadness. "What about her?"

"Caitlin told her – in a very public way – that I would be bidding that amount on you. I couldn't back out."

"And you didn't want to damage your position on the society pecking order," Logan says with an eye roll. “Lucky me."

"On the _Philanthropic_ Society pecking order, yeah. I do too much good there to mess things up."

"Why? Since when have you cared about anybody but yourself?"

Madison leans in close, not allowing herself to linger on the perfect line of his jaw or the delicious way he smells. She drops her voice to a whisper. "Since I got wasted and ran down Jessica Fuller. Somebody's wife. Somebody’s mother. And you're well on your way to doing the same thing tonight."

She pulls back and nods at his near empty glass. "Is one date with me worth ruining your sobriety?"

"My sobriety?"

"Come on, Logan. I saw you a few years back. You were a complete mess."

"You'd know all about messes," he mumbles with an offended side-eye.

Madison touches his forearm. "You got clean and put your life back together, why can't you believe that I did?"

Logan pulls his arm away, but not rudely. He reaches for his glass. "So this Madison Sinclair: Charity Warrior routine is genuine? Some kind of atonement?"

"What else could I do? I considered suicide, but it wouldn't solve anything." Her gut knots up, and she scrubs a hand over her face. "I can't bring Mrs. Fuller back. But I can give of my time and money. I can help the sick and the poor. "

Logan nods, thoughtfully. Sips from his glass.

He should know a little bit about atoning. Everybody knows his dedication to the South Side pool project is due in part to him being responsible for burning it down.

In the silence that follows, she takes a bite of her molten lava cake. Three forms of chocolate combine to create a little piece of heaven. This alone would be enough to make tonight worth it.

"So why go through with the date?" Logan finally asks.

"I offered you an out. You wanted to play martyr."

"But you could have cancelled when I didn't."

"I considered it, but ultimately I thought it would be best to come and grovel."

A slight quirk of Logan's lips. "I haven't seen any groveling."

"It's not something I have a lot of experience with." She gives him a self-deprecating grin. "Look, I just want to get back into your good graces. I want you as an ally"

"Why?"

Madison sets down her fork and looks him in the eyes. "I admire you. You're powerful. You have pull. You can help me get things accomplished."

"You want something from me. How unexpected." He seems amused.

"Nothing big. You know the large park at Grande and Underwood?"

He nods. Sips his gin.

"My mother was devoted to it. She met my dad there. They got engaged there."

"Okay?" Logan at least seems interested in what she has to say.

"So why is it still named after Woody-fucking-Goodman?"

Logan cringes. "We'll have to do something about that."

Madison smiles. "I want to have it renamed to the Ellen K. Sinclair Memorial Park."

"I can see why we wouldn't want our city parks named after Mr. Stranger Danger, but naming a park takes some consideration. Other people will want to have input."

"My mother is the one who proposed putting in the Cultural Sculpture Gardens. She led the fund-raising effort to pay for them. She organized litter clean-up days."

Logan stares at her for a long moment. "God help me, but I actually believe you. Call my office on Monday, and we'll see what we can put together to make this happen."

Madison suddenly feels light and giddy.

This is a good thing. This is a very very good thing.

She makes a joke. Logan laughs.

Her heart skips a beat. She can't help it. She loves her boyfriend more than life, but Logan has always had this effect on her.

"So who were you arguing with?" he asks.

"Huh?"

"You said you were in the heat of a disagreement when you threatened to bid on me."

"Oh that. Um..."

Logan gives her a hurry-up sign.

"Um...it was...Veronica Mars. Listen, I didn't set out to antagonize her. I only approached her to apologize. Just like I did with Mac tonight."

He lets out a pained groan.

"But Caitlin wouldn't give us any privacy. She started poking at old wounds – both mine and Veronica's – and before I could even think, things got out of hand. No matter how much I've changed, Veronica Mars brings out the worst in me."

Logan's head drops back and he stares at the ceiling for guidance. "For the love of God, please tell me you didn't throw Aspen in Veronica's face."

"I wouldn't call it throwing it in her face. I told her the ugly truth."

Logan's shoulders droop. He knocks back the rest of his drink, and then stares at his hands.

Madison speaks gently. "I told Veronica about finding you in that bar. How every word you spoke was about your love for her. And how humiliating it was to realize out how very little you actually wanted me."

Logan's mouth slackens and he seems dazed. "You told her all of that?"

"I was trying to fix things. Not make her jealous."

"I'm sorry," he says, in an aching, hoarse tone. "For causing you to feel humiliated." His eyes drop back to his hands. "The _'Collateral-Damage-In-Logan-Echolls'-Attempts-To-Get-Over-Veronica-Mars-Support-Group'_ meets on Sundays. I can have them save you a chair."

Madison touches his arm again. "I knew what I was getting into. And I owe you an apology. It's my fault Veronica found out about Aspen all those years ago."

He brushes off her apology. "I was stupid to think I could hide anything from Veronica." There's a hint of admiration in his tone – as if he actually enjoys Veronica's nosy streak. "So how did things get out of hand?"

"Oh, you know. Caitlin pushed buttons. I said things. Veronica said things. Her things were mostly accurate, but I was already feeling attacked. The next thing I knew, I was threatening to bid on you. I regretted saying it immediately."

"How did Veronica take that?"

"She smiled. Told me to go for it and mentioned how lucky your charity would be to earn that much money. Then she pretended to scratch her side, lifting her shirt just enough to reveal where your signature was scrawled across her hip."

She shakes her head, grudgingly admiring the way Veronica played her there. But Logan's gaze sharpens and he leans forward.

"Wait, when was this conversation?"

"Thursday afternoon."

His eyes harden. "You mean to tell me Veronica has known this was going to happen for three days and she didn't think to warn me?"

He smiles and Madison shivers.

She's known Logan most of her life; has seen this smile before. It's wide and cold, and he uses it in situations where most people would be fuming or raging. It's a little bit frightening, to be honest.

_Oh hell. I would not want to be in Veronica Mars' shoes the next time she talks to Logan._

 

* * *

 

Turns out, there is one good thing about being on a date with Dick Casablancas: no awkward silences. A few well-timed nods, and 'Uh-huh's and he's perfectly capable of keeping the conversation rolling while she silently obsesses over Madison and her parents.

He's rambling now about a new sports complex with a rad climbing wall.

"I've been going on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You should come with some time."

"I don't have time, Dick."

"Go after work. Your ass will thank you."

"Dick," she says in a warning tone.

"I'm not dissing your current ass – I check it out now and then – but after a few months of climbing, you could have a top rated ass. Like that website you and Logan used to have."

"One, any ogling of any part of my body ceases immediately," Mac says, "And two, did it ever occur to you that the reason I never have any free time is that I'm doing your job as well as my own?"

"Why? I never asked you to."

Mac exhales and speaks in short, distinct syllables. "The work doesn't go away just because you feel like golfing or surfing, Dick. Somebody still has to meet the deadlines."

Dick's drops his eyes and mumbles under her breath. "Well you won't have to worry about that for long."

"What's that supposed to mean."

"Neither one of us will have a job soon."

Mac's chest tightens. _I'm not hearing this._ "What the hell are you talking about, Dick?"

He lets out a loud sigh, and reaches for his phone. Ignoring her completely, he navigates the screens with his finger, and then hands the device to her.

"What's this?"

"Read it."

An email is open in the Gmail app. An embedded photo shows Dick with his arm around a large breasted blonde.

 

> **She was only sixteen.**
> 
> **You have 30 days in which to resign as CEO from Casablancas and take Cindy Mackenzie with you.  The other photos are more explicit. Ignore this demand, and all photos will be sent to the press.**

"God dammit, Dick!" Mac yells. "What the hell have you gotten us into?"

"I don't know. I don't even know who that girl is."

"She's attached to you like a sea anemone"

"So?" Dick tosses his hair out of his eyes. "I don't remember her. I can't even tell where I'm at in that photo."

Mac's body tenses and her teeth grind.

_How can you be so blasé about this?_

His left arm is on the table and she grips his wrist like a vice forcing him to look at her. "Is it possible you had sex with this girl?"

He shrugs. "Of course, it's possible. I've had random hookups, but I'm careful. Even when I'm drunk."

Mac exhales. "Okay, so we'll call their bluff."

"But what if I did it on accident? What if she lied about her age or had a fake ID?"

"You check ID's?" She finds that hard to believe.

"No but, you know, the bartenders do."

She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Why are they targeting me along with you? I haven't hurt anybody."

"Don't know, Mac."

Okay, so Dick's job is in jeopardy, but there's no reason why she should have to pay for his mistakes. She hasn't slept with anyone – legal or otherwise – in longer than she can remember.

"So if they ousted you, would they be able to force me out too?"

"Dunno. Probably. I hired you from outside the company. Ahead of people who had worked there for years. If it came down to a vote, you'd probably be gone."

"So you're saying it's in my best interest to keep you working?" She laughs bitterly. "Let me rephrase that – to keep your name on the office door."

"I guess. I know I kind of suck, but Casablancas is all I have left. I can't afford to lose it."

"Who would stand to gain by us stepping do—“  She cuts herself off. "Never mind. Veronica will know what questions to ask."

"Veronica Mars? Why would she help me?"

"She wouldn't. But she would help me. And seeing how our fates are linked now..." She checks the time on her cell, but it's getting late. "I'll call her about it tomorrow morning."

 

* * *

 

**Mars Residence**

It's the kind of night where time seems to run backward. Veronica types up her case notes, nodding her head in time to Anna Kendrick singing 'No Diggety' in _Pitch Perfect_. This is her third female-led movie tonight, and she may have to select a fourth if she doesn't start feeling tired soon.

Her stomach feels like an over-inflated balloon from her dinner of Mama Leone's manicotti and garlic bread. She pauses her movie and shuffles into her bedroom, where she changes into a looser pair of green plaid pajama pants, and a sage tank top.

She washes off her makeup and twists her hair back into a bun; holds off on brushing her teeth – if she's still wide awake in an hour, she can drown her sorrows in the pint of Chunky Monkey hidden behind the frozen peas.

She restarts her movie, and sits on the couch. Pulls up one leg. Both legs. Shifts her legs to the side. Back to center. Crosses them. It's no use. She can't get comfortable any more than she can control her racing thoughts.

_Just keep working, Veronica. Find the patterns._

She reaches for her laptop on the coffee table, but grabs her cell instead when it chirps a notification for a text message.

_11: 21 PM. Jackie reporting in on her date with Wallace? Mac?_

Her phone identifies the sender as Madison Sinclair. Lovely.

 

> **Logan is at my house, shitfaced drunk. Pick him up in the next twenty minutes at 8338 Lost Canyon Drive, or I'm giving him back his car keys and whatever happens is on your head.**

_Fuck. Why me?_

She'd give anything for a trash can to kick right about now.

She texts back:

 

> **Be there in 15.**

Veronica rushes to her room where she throws on a bra, slips a zip-up hoodie over her tank, and slides into a pair of shoes. She doesn't bother changing out of her pajama pants and sets the mascara back down immediately upon picking it up.

This is a rescue mission, not a hookup. And hell, maybe if he sees her this way, he'll stop hoping for a reunion.

The ridiculousness of the thought makes her snort. _Six years and eighty-five miles couldn't do it, but my bare face would be too much to bear?_

She slips her cell into her bag, grabs her keys, and leaves without bothering to turn out the lights.

_Fucking Logan! What the hell am I supposed to do with a drunken rich boy with octopus hands?_

Several very interesting scenarios present themselves.   _Shut up Veronica._

The drive to Madison's takes less than ten minutes.

There's an inky blackness up here in the hills, and if it weren't for the reflective numbers on a stone post, she would have driven right past the place.

She pulls into the semi-circular driveway, flashes her headlights twice, and shifts the car into park to wait for Logan.

Madison's house is smaller than she expected – way smaller than the immense Sinclair home she and Mac infiltrated back in high school. But what it lacks in size it makes up for in privacy.

It's not to Veronica's taste, but many people would find this style of home attractive. A single story on a steeply sloping road, it seems to be partially built-in to the hill. It certainly blends, with its earth tone exterior and spiky red and yellow ornamental plants. The high rock wall surrounding the property seems to be as much about keeping everything with wheels from rolling away as it is about privacy.

To Veronica, it feels lonely.

Even at a moderate tone, her car stereo seems too loud. She turns it down so that Blues Traveler's "Hook" is a mere murmur of harmonica.

Minutes pass. No Logan.

She doesn't beep the horn. It's late, and just because she can't see the neighboring houses, doesn't mean they're out of earshot.

She sighs, turns off the ignition, and gets out.

Two steps up, a wide paving-stone walk curves left around a landscaped planter. Another two steps. Another curve. This time around a right-side planter. A final two steps, a final left curve, and she's standing in front of a pair of Mahogany double doors.

A round doorbell glows to the right, but it's unnecessary. The door is already cracked open an inch. She pushes it open, calling out, "Logan?"

The house is much larger inside than it appeared from the driveway, and she can see now why Madison chose the place.

To the right of the foyer, a vaulted cathedral ceiling crowns the formal living room. The far wall is made entirely of stone with an off-center mantel-less fireplace. Gray furniture with a silvery sheen surrounds a dark chestnut coffee table. The room is empty.

Straight ahead, the dining room continues the dark chestnut motif with a china cabinet, buffet, and a large table centered under an oil-rubbed bronze chandelier.

Porcelain tile – soft brown, oversized, and set on the diagonal – flows from one room into the next, tying the spaces together.

Veronica's soft-soled shoes make no sound as she walks, calling out, "Hello?"

Ahead and to the left, the family room also has vaulted ceilings. The back wall is all glass, showcasing a breathtaking view of the canyon. The large screen television is off, but two empty wine glasses sit on the coffee table.

"Logan?" she calls again. "Madison?"

She continues forward into an immense kitchen. More dark wood. Granite countertops. Stainless appliances and a huge center island. Another large glass sliding door leads out to the back patio area.

No sign of them out there either, but soft music flows out from a passage on the left.

Portishead. “Roads.”

Seduction music.

Veronica's stomach drops. She gets it now. She knows what's going on.

_She set me up. That vindictive bitch. And just when I was starting to buy the whole personality transplant thing._

Several doors lead off either side of the hallway. Veronica's eyes fixate on the door at the end, partially cracked and lit by multiple candles, if the flickering glow bleeding around the edges is any indication.

The song's keyboard thrums with a fluttering tremolo effect that causes her heartbeat to reverberate in answer.

**How can it feel this wrong.**

_Just leave, Veronica for your own mental health. You don't need to see this._

But she does. If she's ever going to get over Logan for good, she needs to push open that door and face the truth.

Only yesterday, he was professing his love, and tonight he's in somebody else's bed.

It's Kendall all over again. Only much, much worse.

**From this moment how can it feel this wrong.**

Still, she moves as if walking through quicksand. As if by taking smaller steps she can make it less true.

Forget about swallowing, the lump in her throat is cutting off her air supply. Choking her.

An open door on the right reveals a smallish bedroom for a teenage girl. Lauren's part-time room, she supposes.

She keeps moving.

Despite her grand plan to leave Neptune behind – despite all the self-talk about being forever done with romantic love and relationships – she's been lying to herself.

Because deep inside, she'd wanted to believe – ached to believe – that Logan had truly grown up. That just maybe there might be a chance for them someday – once she managed to get her own head straightened out and her life organized.

She'd wanted him to convince her. To make her believe she could finally feel safe lowering her guard and loving him again.

_Hope is for suckers._

**How can it feel this wrong.**

It's classic Logan. Self-medicating with booze and cheap sex to numb the pain.

And she had hurt him – with her words telling him she didn't want him, and her...everything else...telling him she did.

_Why didn't I warn him of Madison's plan to bid? Why did I leave it up to her to tell him?_

She was wrong, but that doesn't change the fact that this is unforgivable.

**From this moment how can it feel this wrong.**

She keeps moving. Past a guest bathroom. A linen closet. An office.

The perfume of the scented candles – a spicy blend of wood and citrus -grows stronger and her pulse races in her throat.

_This is it, Logan. This is something I'll never be able to forgive and forget. I don't care how drunk you are._

An orchestral break – a lush string section of despair – kicks in as Veronica touches the doorknob. She pulls back, swiping at her sudden flood of tears with the sleeve of her hoodie.

_Turn back, Veronica. This is a set up. You'd have to be blind not to see that._

Hasn't she already spent enough time conjuring up mental images of Logan with Madison? Why would she want to permanently emboss this moment onto her brain?

_Because I'm Veronica Mars and I seek the truth. No matter how much it hurts._

She nudges the door with her forearm and the gap widens by several inches.

_FUCK! OH FUCK!_

_NO!_

She steps back, pressing her hand to her mouth and her spine to the hallway wall.

It's like being underwater and unable to find air and she slides down to a squatting position.

Breathe.

Five counts in.

Five counts out.

She completes this cycle four times before her head starts to clear.

_You can handle this, Veronica. You're a professional._

_Detach_.

Her cell is in the back pocket of her bag, and she extracts it using her index finger to navigate the screens.

She stands, nudges the door a few more inches and takes in the scene.

**How can it feel this wrong.**

The bedroom is large with high ceilings and dove gray walls. Glass French doors lead out to the patio and reveal the same canyon view she’d seen from the family room. Far below, the lights of Neptune twinkle like fireflies.

The open doors to the master bath and walk-in closet are to the left of the doorway.

A row of thick pillar candles flicker on the low wood dresser. Under their heavy fragrance she detects other scents – perfume and sex and copper.

The room's focal point is a king sized bed with oil-rubbed bronze head- and footboards.

Madison is posed in the center wearing champagne-colored lingerie with ecru lace trim – a camisole and matching boy shorts. [ _As a friend, he's not so big on the one piece numbers_ ] She's alone, and stares right through Veronica, beyond caring what anybody thinks about her underthings.

Veronica swallows and presses send on her cell.

"911. What's your emergency?"

"I'd like to report a murder."

**From this moment how can it feel this wrong.**

 

###  End Episode Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY!!!
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to DisdainfulLady, who somehow predicted what would happen weeks ago in the rewatch chat (when I'm positive I didn't drop any clues). I have no idea how you do it. Your deductive skills blow me away. 
> 
> Much much love for Bryrosea, who not only beta'd my 20K word chapter without blinking an eye, but also helped me find the confidence to post it. I was a MESS over this chapter, and her support means everything!


	10. Episode 3/Part 1 Neptune's Finest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't remember what's going on? Check out my recap on Tumblr: http://mysilverylining.tumblr.com/post/161638723080/previously-on-neptune
> 
> Thanks, as always, to FFSG for the encouragement and brainstorming, GC, for her NOT VAGUE advice that made Veronica's story much better than it was, and CCS for literally everything. 
> 
> This chapter was originally much longer, but I split it in half in order to afford this half the gravity it deserves. Unfortunately, anything light or fluffy was in the second half, so maybe...have some tissues ready? I plan to get back to work on Part Two in August, but between now and then, I'll be focusing on putting out a chapter of Sometimes.

 

* * *

  **Neptune Sheriff's Department**

It's 8:30 on a Sunday morning, and the Sheriff's Department parking lot is nearly filled to capacity.

 _T_ _hat's not a bad sign, or anything._  

Department budget only allows for a handful of deputies during off-peak hours.  More importantly, Logan doesn't much appreciate shit going down in his town before he's properly caffeinated.

He backs his Bimmer into the last remaining spot, shifts into park, and takes a moment to wipe his face of _'jackass'_. It's a necessary component of the job - nobody votes for the chronically surly - but it requires more effort than usual today.  A delicate throb prickles his head, and his dry mouth tastes like old milk.  On a one-to-ten hangover scale, this morning's rates a mere three, but that's only because he hasn't dealt with Gia yet.

The calendar widget on his phone's home screen shows two upcoming appointments.

 **9:00** **AM Budget** **Meeting - Haven House**  
**10:30** **AM Pancake** **Breakfast benefiting Neptune Arboretum - St. Mary's**

 _Blech._ The mere thought of pancakes makes his stomach queasy.

_Here goes._

He pushes the call button on his steering wheel.  "Dial Gia."  

The phone rings twice, and then Gia's voice snarls through the speakers. "So help me God, Logan, if you're calling me to cancel your meetings, I'm quitting. There's this time-management seminar next month, and I'm going to have to insist—"

"Gia!" He raises his voice to be heard over her tirade. "Not. My. Fault. Sheriff's Department called, demanding I come in for some reason. Immediately."

She emits a long-suffering sigh. "Tell Vinnie to call _me_ like everyone else, so I can schedule him on your calendar."

"Wow, I never thought of that." He rolls his eyes, and - since she doesn't always pick-up on sarcasm – continues, "They said it was urgent. Judging from the number of cars here in the parking lot, I'm guessing high-profile crime."

"So, a press conference," she concludes. "What are you wearing?"

He glances down. "Um...dark gray Armani. Two-piece. Navy tie."

"You should've worn the charcoal houndstooth."

"For the record, I will _never_ wear the houndstooth. Get it through your head."

She's silent for a moment, and he can _see_ her pouting face. Why won't he just cooperate and be her life-sized dress-up doll?   "Okay, your left side is more photogenic, so try to keep Vinnie on your right. Use the words _'tough on crime'_ at least twice, and remind the reporters that crime rates have gone down since you've taken office."

"Has crime gone down?"

"Who knows? But I'll find some stats to back it up. Watch for my text." Gia says. "Moving on. Should I reschedule this morning's meetings?"

"Yes, for Haven House. The pancake breakfast can go on without me."

"Okay, and—”

"Gia!  We'll talk later.  There's heads waiting to roll, corruption to squash, and crime to take a bite out of."  

He disconnects the call, turns off the vehicle, and grabs both coffees from the cup-holders.

 

* * *

 

No matter his age or accomplishments, walking into the Sheriff's Department always takes him back in time. He's fourteen years old, (fifteen, sixteen) squirming on a wooden chair, waiting for his father to arrive and deliver the public _'I'm disappointed in you'_ speech that always proceeded the private _'bend over'_ speech _._

Four bland, hung-over frat boys slouch in the waiting area, but they don't appear important (or rich) enough to be the reason behind his summoning.  In fact, nothing in the station immediately jumps out at him.  

Deputies occupy every desk in the bullpen, which _is_ an oddity. Siobhan stands behind hers, leaning over and tapping the tip of a ballpoint pen down a page, as if counting rows or working through a checklist.

His chest tightens. The usual cocktail of emotion - two parts deep affection, one part extreme guilt.  They would have been knee-deep in wedding planning right about now. If he hadn't...

"Mornin' Mayor." The weekend receptionist approaches with a friendly smile. "How are you this fine morning?"

Siobhan glances up, crosses her eyes. She's teased him about Michelle Foster's crush. _'Like magic, you arrive, and the wicked stepmother turns into the wide-eyed innocent'_. Personally, he doesn't see it, Michelle seems like a nice lady.

"Vinnie needed to see me?"

"Sure thing." Michelle presses the intercom button. "Sheriff? Mayor Echolls is here."

"Yeah, yeah. Tell him I'll be right out."

She offers him an apologetic smile. It goes without saying, _'right out'_ means _'in five minutes'_.  That is, if Logan chooses to play his game.  He could just as easily barge into Vinnie's office and demand answers, but he'll save the dramatics until after he's greeted his ex.  

Siobhan closes her manila folder, drops her pen and meets him halfway.

"For you. I saw your car parked outside." Logan presents the second cup of coffee with a flourish, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

She twists away before his lips can connect, and alarm bells go-off in his head. She's never recoiled before.

His throat closes up. "Did I do something to piss you off?" _Other than that whole 'ruining-your-life' thing?_

"No, we're good." She sighs. "Just...maybe don't do that in front of your new girlfriend, okay? It makes me uncomfortable."

"My new girlfriend?"

"Sorry, bad choice of words." She takes his elbow, turns him clockwise, and points to Interview Room Two, where Veronica is visible through the open doorway. "The woman you were photographed kissing at a carnival, who is definitely -  _adamantly_  - NOT your girlfriend.  But will be, once you two work through your issues."

"Shiv..."

"The one you left me over." That her voice holds no detectable trace of bitterness or anger is a testament to the woman Siobhan is.  If only he had more to give her than coffee.  She offers him a pained smile.  "Hey, at least I get it now.  Why you couldn't let go."

"I'm sorry."  Meeting her eyes, he tries to make her see into his heart. _For a hundred old reasons, and for this new one._

Siobhan accepts the apology with a nod and lightly shoves him in the right direction, sending him off with a slap to the ass.

 

* * *

  
Veronica's chair is pushed back to the wall, and she resembles a child, curled up and hugging her pajama-clad knees. Her face is buried in the bend of her arm and, unsure if she's awake, Logan crouches down before her, touching her hand. "Veronica."

She lifts her head. "Logan?"

Up close, she's bone-weary. Her fingers clutch at his forearm, and her gaze alternates from his left eye to his right, back-and-forth. Searching for an answer.

_But what's the question?_

"Hey." He covers his concern with a tentative smile.

Pure relief fills her eyes.  She sighs, pulling his face down into her shoulder, and smoothing her hand over the back of his hair. "I'm happy to see you."

Logan squeezes her tight, breathing her in - fabric softener and coconut-scented shampoo.  He curbs the urge to celebrate her spontaneous demonstration of affection. His gut tells him something is wrong.  Very wrong.

Pulling back, he asks, "What's going on, Veronica? Why are you here?"

"That..." She blows out a weary breath. "...is a long story. Short answer? Vinnie wants me to stick around for round twenty-three of questioning." Her left thumb idly rubs a half-circle on his bicep, and with her right hand, she steals his coffee, lifting it to her lips.

He allows the theft, she needs it more than he does.

"Nice PJs."  He pinches a loose piece of fabric between his thumb and pointer finger. "They didn't even give you time to dress?"

Veronica glances down. "These? No, they're from last night. I got here around midnight."

"Oh." So much for his special arrangements. "So you weren't home this morning for your fabulous birthday breakfast?" 

"Birthday?" Her eyes lift up and to the left, while she does the math in her head. When they return to center, they're glossy and wet, as if this is just one-problem-too-many, on top of whatever-the-fuck-else is happening here. She blinks, attempting to stem her tears. "With everything going on, I completely forgot."

Logan cups her jaw. "That's why you need me around. I'm good at remembering this stuff."

She pouts.  "How fabulous was it? The breakfast?"

"Chocolate chip pancakes may have been on the menu." He pokes out his own lower lip in commiseration, and brushes away one stray tear with his thumb. "Tell me what happened"

"Madison..."

Logan sighs, shakes his head, and rises.  To think he was actually starting to feel optimistic. "Veronica. I didn't have a choice in the matter. I volunteered, and I couldn't just—”

She tugs on his wrist, attempting to pull him back down to her level. "No. Logan, I meant—”

Pounding footfalls interrupt her explanation, and Tad Wilson barrels into the room, fixing a hateful, venomous glare on Veronica. "Where are they?"

"Where are _what?_ " Veronica pushes to her feet, crossing her arms over her chest, and scowls. "Your car keys? Your self-respect? Your balls?"

Tad slams a fist into the door. "Don't play stupid, bitch! Where are my wife and kids?"

Adrenaline surges and Logan inserts his body between them. "You'd better watch your tone."

Tad dismisses him, eyes still locked on Veronica. "What did you do?"

Deputies rush over from the bullpen, funneling through the open doorway.

Siobhan grabs Tad by the shoulder. "What's going on here?"

"Get off me, bitch!" He shoves, and she stumbles backward into a potted tree.

Logan's vision goes white.

_Going to crush that fucker._

Norris Clayton gets to Tad first, twisting his arm up behind his back. "SETTLE DOWN NOW!"

Others move between them, Martinez, Novak, and that new guy (Bob? Billy?), and together, they wrestle Tad down into a chair.

One palm pressed to Logan's chest, preventing him from engaging, Jerry Sacks monitors the situation over his shoulder.  

Veronica helps Siobhan up from the floor, and Logan recognizes the question in her glance. _Did you do it?_

Shiv answers with a barely-perceptible head shake to the negative.

 _Oh,_ _hell almighty._ His exes are plotting!

Tiny hairs lifts on the back of his neck. They're dangerous enough, separately. But together...?

"What the hell is going on?" Norris demands.

Tad takes several heaving breaths before speaking. "Carmen and the kids are missing. They were gone when I got home this morning."

"When did you last see them?" Martinez asks.

"Last night. I went home between shifts like I always do when I work a double. They were there when I left to come back to work. Around 10:50 PM."

"So why are you blaming Veronica?" Sacks waves a hand at her. "She was here all night."

"Not until midnight.  She had an hour-long window."

Veronica pokes her head around Logan. "Yeah, you guessed it in one, asshole. I waited for you to leave, spirited away your wife and kids, and then committed a murder to give myself an alibi. What the fuck is wrong with your brain?"

_Wait a second. Murder?_

Siobhan's eyes spark with amusement, but she covers with a stern expression and points to Veronica. "You! Stop it. You're lucky we're all here as witnesses to attest that you said that in sarcasm. Others might take that as a confession." She aims a glare at Tad.

"What do you mean, murdered?" Logan asks.

"I know it was you!" Tad says. "You poisoned Carmen against me back in high school, and you're trying to do it again now."

Veronica juts out her chin in that belligerent way, that used to make Logan's blood boil or his dick hard, depending upon who was on the receiving end.  "I didn't need to poison her.  You were an abusive, date-raping, pig back then, and from the looks of things, you still are."

Tad pushes out of his chair, practically frothing at the mouth. "Shut up, you lying cunt, or I'll shut you up."

_Oh. Fuck. No._

Four deputies drag Tad out of the interrogation room, but it takes the combined strength of Siobhan, Veronica, and Jerry Sacks to keep Logan from pursuing and smashing him in his butt-ugly face.

Veronica slams the door, while Siobhan drags Logan into the back corner.

She steps in front of him so she's all he can see. "Don't be stupid, Logan. He'll come after you for assaulting an officer."

"He assaulted you! You're an officer." He sinks into a chair, dropping his face into his hands.  

"He's a psycho with a badge. You don't want to piss him off. You're not in his cross-hairs right now. Keep it that way."

He's keyed-up and twitchy, blood rushing straight to his fists.  "But he—”  

"Breathe, Logan.  I'll take care of Tad."  Siobhan takes a seat next to him, presses her knuckles into the dip of his lower back with just enough force to get his attention.  

As he meets her eyes, she drags her hand upward, just like back when he was having panic attacks.  He breathes through his nose for a count of four, pulling air deep into his lower abdomen.  Holding for a two count, she pushes her fist downward and he exhales through his mouth for another four-count.  

He allows her to lead him through three more breathing cycles - mostly to convince her he's calm and not planning to bash Wilson's face the moment she turns her back.  

Across the room, Veronica pointedly avoids his eyes, speaking to Sacks in a hushed tone. She appears lost and unbearably small, thin arms wrapped tightly around herself as if cold, or self-comforting. 

Guilt and indecision congeal in Logan's gut. He loves both of these women. The one who claims not to return his feelings, who implies she would rather flee the state than take a chance on him. And the one who cares enough to be his support system, even after he's failed her.  He needs to handle this delicately.

Siobhan's friendship means the world to him. Pulling away from her now, while she's trying to help him, would be one more slap-in-the-face among many.  But Veronica's jealousy is legendary, and just because she's not interested in anything romantic, doesn't mean she's okay with another woman's hands on him.  That's Veronica-logic for you.  

"I'm good now."  He eases away from Siobhan, squeezing her hand, and giving her a grateful smile.  "Thank you for that."  

She nods, acknowledging the unsaid, and stands, moving several steps away and pretending interest in a Crimestoppers poster.

He _still_ doesn't understand why he was called in, or what's going on with Veronica. "So, is anyone going to tell me what—”

The door opens, and Vinnie saunters in, casual and relaxed in the face of chaos. "Echolls! About time you got around to joining us."

"Van Lowe." Logan's in no mood for the ‘crouching-moron-hidden-badass’ shtick today. "Why are you holding Veronica here? She was noticeably fatigued, even before your deputy stormed in screaming threats and accusations at her."

"Boo-freaking-hoo," Vinnie rubs his eyes like an over-tired toddler. "She's a witness in a homicide, and I need her here, in case I have more questions. But first, I need to interview you."

"About _what_? I don't even know what's going on!" Logan rises from the chair. "Never mind. Don't care. Right now, I'm taking Veronica home so she can get some sleep. You can question me about _whatever_ when I return."

"Oh, no you don't." Vinnie lifts a restraining hand. "I can't let you two walk out of here so you can coordinate your cover-stories."

"I don't know what you're implying, but you'd better arrest me, because I'm leaving, and taking Veronica with me."  Logan slides an arm around Veronica's back, and stares a challenge at Vinnie.  Daring him to do something.

"Fine," Vinnie spits. "Be back in an hour."

Steering Veronica towards the door, Logan asks, “Where are your shoes?”

She shakes her head.  “I assume the lab is processing them.  They’ll have to make elimination impressions of the tread.  But…”  She turns back around, holding out her hand, palm up.  “I _will_ take my cell.” 

“No can do, VMars.  That phone is evidence.”

“Evidence I handed over voluntarily last night.  You’ve had plenty of time to copy the pertinent data.” 

“Sorry, I’ve been a little busy.  What was I doing, again?"  Vinnie touches his finger to his chin, gaze lifted to the sky.  "Oh yeah - running a murder investigation.  You’ll get your phone and your car back when we’re done with them.”

“My CAR?”  Veronica’s eyes tighten to angry slits.  “Do you have a warrant for that?”

“Don’t need a warrant, Mars.  It’s part of a murder scene.  You should know that.”

Veronica throws up her hands.  “This isn’t a TV procedural.  You know damn well there’s no such thing as a _‘murder scene exception’_ to the fourth amendment.  My car could not be more irrelevant to your investigation.” 

“I’m sorry, I thought you were leaving?  If not, I’ll go ahead and interview your boyfriend, here.” 

Making a low growl in her throat, Veronica spins on her heel, and storms out of the room.

Logan glances at Vinnie, shakes his head.  “She hates when people call me her boyfriend.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No.”  He smirks.  “But I _am_ your boss.” 

“Really?”  Vinnie turns on the smarm.  “Cause I seem to remember being voted into office by the great people of Neptune.  And they’ll keep voting me in, as long as I’m solving crimes.” 

“Right.”  Logan backs through the doorway, pausing on the threshold and lifting both hands, in a man-of-the-people gesture. “Good luck with all that crime-solving on a shoestring budget.  I’m sure you’ll find creative ways to tighten the belt.” 

“You’re a prick, Echolls.”

Logan blows him a kiss, and leaves.  

He catches up with Veronica near the reception area, where she's aiming a lethal scowl at the receptionist.  “What?  Do I have something on my face, or are my pajamas not couture enough?”   

What is it about this woman that makes his exes so irritable?  

Michelle's head snaps back, with a flurry of _how-dare-you_ blinks.  "I..."

She so clearly wants to snap back, but she's out of her league.  

Logan takes pity and draws Veronica's attention.  "There you are."  

"Was I lost?"    

Michelle rearranges her features into a pleasant smile.  “Hello again, Mayor.  Finished with the Sheriff already?” 

“For now. I’ll be back later.”  Logan rests his hand on Veronica’s shoulder.  “Hey Michelle, do you think you could help Veronica out with some footwear?”  

“That’s not necessary.” Veronica frowns.  “I wouldn’t want to put _Michelle_ out.” 

“Are you sure?  I mean, I can always carry you out to the car. For old time's sake.” 

"Very sweet, but not necessary."  Veronica pats Logan’s cheek, steps around him, and sits on a wooden chair, rummaging through her bag. "Anyway, I remember where I ended up every time I let you carry me in those 'old times'."  She produces a pair of clear plastic shoe covers and slips them over her socks. 

“Sexy,” Logan observes.   

She holds out her hand, allowing him to pull her to her feet.  “They have a multitude of uses.  Enough years on the job, and you learn to never be caught without ‘em.  Ready?” 

“Let’s go.”   He waives goodbye to Siobhan and Michelle, and follows Veronica out.  

Vinnie bellows from behind them, “Why are you all still standing around? You’re supposed to be out canvassing the neighborhood!”

Only Siobhan responds.  “Because you told us an hour ago that you’d be right out with our assignments.” 

“Good answer.  Let’s get on that.” 

 

* * *

 

"Thanks for the assist," Veronica says as Logan pushes open the rear exit. "Not that I need anyone to fight my battles for me, but I guess your position holds a bit more sway."

"Sure thing."  His lips curl into a knowing smirk.  "I wouldn't dream of depriving you of a battle, but you fight better when you're rested."    

She sidesteps a pothole and kicks a discarded apple core. Refuse gathers along the edges of the sidewalks and the handicapped parking sign hangs upside down.

Veronica shakes her head, disgusted. Her father never allowed the parking lot to go to seed, when he was in charge. In fact, every summer, he’d tasked Veronica with repainting the cement blocks and parking dividers. Now only the faded yellow edges remain.

She scans the parking lot, her gaze traveling over SUVs and trucks - Chevys, Dodges, Jeeps – and finally settling upon a sleek blue convertible. Even with the sun hiding behind gray clouds, its gleaming paint job mirrors back earth and sky.

She gestures.  “Yours, I presume?”  

"No."  Logan pretends to be insulted and moves toward a rusty green pickup truck with a brown hood.  

“Yeah, right.  You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, Buddy.” She snatches his key fob from his fingers, and pushes the unlock button.  "Guessed it in one."  

He lowers his head, grinning, and with his hand resting on the small of her back, guides her towards the BMW.  He opens the passenger door, and motions her in. 

Recently detailed, not a crumb, hair, nor wrapper, blemishes the impeccably spotless white interior.  A small black tin of Logan’s favorite overpriced gum pokes out from a tiny cubby, and if she concentrates, she can almost detect a hint of the familiar peppermint.

She sinks into butter-soft leather.  The seat cradles and conforms to the curves of her exhausted spine, and the head rest nestles perfectly into the notch behind her neck. 

_A girl could get used to this._

Logan opens his door and climbs behind the wheel. "You alright?"

"Yeah," she lies. "A little sleep, and I'll be good as new."

“Okay.”  He starts the vehicle and shifts into Drive.  Pulling out on Alberta Street, he keeps his eyes on the road, giving her the space she needs to process.

He thumbs a button on his steering wheel.  "Dial Louie."  A ringing phone transmits through the speakers, and then a creaky, elderly voice explains that he’d _‘tried to do his part this morning, Mayor Echolls, but the young lady never answered the door.’_    Logan reassures the old man that he'd done nothing wrong, and promises he'll make it worth his while to return to the Mars house and try again.

“You really didn’t have to do that, Logan.  But thank you,” she says after he's disconnected the call.   

He bows his head in a silent _‘you’re welcome’_. 

A stone dangles from the rear view mirror, bright vivid green, with bands of a deeper green throughout. One of those _‘ite’_ minerals – hematite, azurite, maybe malachite, it's polished-smooth and carved into the shape of a barrel wave.  

She cups it in her hand, stilling its motion, and leans closer. 

“Beautiful work.  Was this a gift?”   _From a woman?_

She watches him for signs of evasion.  Back in the interview room with Siobhan, he’d exhibited a sort of shifty-eyed agitation.  Guilt maybe, or divided loyalty.  He hadn’t accounted for his exes running into each other, and was clearly uncomfortable with the situation.   

Now, however, his expression softens and warms.  “It _was_ a gift, actually.  From a constituent.” 

“Sounds like the people of Neptune love you.”

“What’s not to love?”  He winks. 

 _Something_ , apparently, but Veronica’s damned if she can remember what it was at the moment. 

She’s curious, though.  Neptune’s beloved mayor was still the despised rich boy who ‘got away with everything’ when she left town, years ago.  Had the shift in sentiment come-around gradually?  Or had he earned the hearts of his constituents through some specific act?  She won’t ask him directly, but if somebody were to write the Official Logan Echolls biography, she would eagerly read the unabridged edition.    

Veronica yawns. It would be so easy to close her eyes.  To relieve the burning itch of her eyeballs, the leaden weight of her lids.  Just for a few minutes.  

Instead, she studies Logan - the sharp angles of his profile, the soft-focus of his eyes and relaxed posture.  That life-force blazing within.  The barely-barely perceptible in-out of his chest. 

His heart still pumps blood, and his lungs still take in air, and he’s still alive. 

Veronica reaches out - watches herself do it, as if from a distance - yet doesn't remember making a conscious decision to touch.

Logan notices though.  He wraps his much-larger hand around hers. Squeezes. "You up for talking about last night?"

She's not.  Not really. But she appreciates the way he's given her space, the way he's asking, rather than demanding.  And anyway, this affects him.

"I found a body last night."

"I gathered as much. Who died?"

She opens her mouth, breathes in, and chokes back a laugh. The situation is far from funny - other than the fact that she's a homicide detective who's suddenly found herself unable to discuss murder. Shaking the cobwebs from her head, she starts over. "It was...Madison Sinclair."

"No. Madison is fine." Logan shakes his head, and she can read his expression: _Whomever you found dead, it could not have been Madison._ "I was with her last night, and…" He glances back at Veronica, and does a double-take. "You're not kidding."

"I wish I was."

Logan activates his turn-signal, checks the rear-view mirror, and pulls over to the side of the road.  Twisting in his seat, he asks, "How is that possible?"

“It’s no less possible than any other murder, Logan.”  She runs her thumb over his palm and then drops his hand.  “What you’re _really_ asking, is how somebody managed to murder Madison in the short amount of time between your date and midnight?”

“Something like that.”  Logan tugs at his tie, loosening the knot enough to pull it over his head, and then tosses it into the back seat.

Veronica describes receiving the text message and rushing off to save him from getting behind the wheel impaired.

"Veronica...I wasn't...that's not what happened."

She blows out her breath. "I know that now.  I was tricked."

They’re parked diagonally from the rear of the high school.  Ahead of them, the dance team practices their drills in perfect formation on a grassy field.  Veronica watches them – and doesn’t – as she recounts arriving at Madison's home, the unlocked door, the music, and finally, discovering the body."

Logan seems to be having trouble processing. He blinks rapidly, gaze unfocused and inward. Abruptly, he shifts the car back into Drive, flicks his blinker, and pulls onto the road.

"Logan?"

"Hmmm?" He doesn't look at her.

"Is something wrong? "

"What makes you think that?"

"Your white knuckles on the steering wheel." She reaches out. "This little muscle in your jaw."

He leans away from her touch. "I'm fine."

"Liar."

Another sigh. "What do you want, Veronica?"

"I want you to talk to me."

"Since when?"

She sighs. "Come on, Logan"

When he speaks, his voice is low and tight.  "I told you I’m still in love with you.”

A stinging sensation arises in the general area of her heart.  “Okay?”

“I told you I'm willing to do whatever it takes to prove myself.  And we've spent the past couple days having the best sex of our lives.” 

“Well…” 

To deny would be a lie, to confirm, an admission.  She wisely keeps her mouth shut. 

Logan’s shoulders slump, and he swallows.  “And _still_ , you think I would sleep with Madison?  That I would repeat the same mistake that ruined everything for us years ago?  What do I have to do to make you see the man I am now?” 

Now Veronica raises her voice.  "I thought you were pissed at me!” 

Logan looks away, lips curling into an ugly sneer.  “Keep it up.  I’m getting there.” 

“Last night, I thought you were pissed.” As if she even needs to clarify.  “I knew Madison planned to bid on you, and I chose not to warn you.  I just figured you'd learned the truth from her.” 

"Oh." He nods, bottom lip flexing down and back. "That makes more sense. Doesn't matter that I put on a suit seven days a week, or that I run an entire town without it burning down or imploding.  I can’t possibly have matured enough to resist that old revenge-fuck impulse." 

"I barely know you, anymore. How am I supposed to guess what you're capable of when you're angry?” Veronica expels a frustrated groan.  “And truthfully, it wouldn't be the first time you screwed another woman five minutes after confessing your feelings to me."

Logan inhales sharp and quick, as if gut-punched.  He opens his mouth, and from his thundercloud expression, a tirade is imminent.  Instead, the storm passes.  He releases his breath and gentles his tone.  "You’ve had a rough night. Let’s not argue."

_Great job, Veronica._

If she’d wanted to prove his point about viewing him through history-colored glasses, playing the Kendall-card was the way to do it.  

Logan pushes the stereo’s power button before she has a chance to explain herself. 

Veronica leans back in her seat, stares out the window, while Hip-Hop’s most autotuned bad boy sings about a heartless woman. 

_What is this, some kind of conspiracy?_

Logan twists the volume knob.

**_"How could you be so heartless? Oh, how could you be so heartless?"_ **

"Passive aggressive, much?" she mutters, crossing her arms over her chest.

"What?" He snorts a laugh despite himself.  “I didn’t pick the song.” 

Still, he pushes a preset button, and the stereo switches to a 90’s channel where Bush wails about nothing hurting like your mouth. 

_Definitely a conspiracy._

“I couldn’t have told you about Madison.” 

Logan looks askance at her, but doesn’t answer. 

“I knew you would be furious,” Veronica admits.  “You would’ve backed out of the auction, and I didn’t want to be responsible for costing the food bank thousands of dollars in donations.” 

He doesn’t look away from the road, but speaks quietly.  “If you think that’s what’s bothering me, you haven’t been paying attention.” 

“I followed my instincts, Logan.  If I hadn’t, who knows when Madison’s body would’ve been discovered?”  She pulls her hoodie tighter, suddenly chilly.  “I’m sorry if your feelings were hurt, but I did the right thing.”    

Logan doesn’t engage, but acknowledges her words with a curt nod. 

“Are you just going to sulk for the rest of the ride?  What do you want me to do?” 

Now he looks at her, a challenging gleam in his eye.  “You could start by treating me like a man, instead of a horny teenage boy.” 

Veronica huffs out a laugh.  “I don’t treat…”

“Sure, you do.  You keep me in that box so you can reassure yourself how terrible we were for each other, and how we could never possibly work out.” 

“Great insight, Dr. Freud.  Where’d you study psychology, again?”

Logan rolls his eyes, lips spreading wide as he turns away, exasperated.  “You won’t take off your blinders and get to know me as a man, because you’re afraid we might actually have something good together.  Something healthy.  And that’s way scarier to you than failing.” 

_Fuck you, Logan!_

She shifts in her seat, leaning her elbow out the window, and swings her attention to the scenery. 

Logan, recognizing her dismissal, tries again.  “I’m sorry.  I really don’t want to fight with you.” 

Fuck him, and his presumptive, arrogant, probably-partially-right pronouncements.  How is he any better?  He thinks he knows her so well, but his knowledge is almost a decade old.  What does he know about adult Veronica?

Nearly-identical bungalows line the street.  It’s early, and the only signs of life are joggers, a handful of dads pushing lawnmowers, and one spiffily-clad family piling into a vehicle for church. 

And to think, she’d actually allowed this jackass to consume her thoughts for the past dozen hours? 

Veronica turns back, stabs a finger at Logan.  "I spent the entire damn night _out of my mind_ with fear for you! Hoping you were okay.  Praying he hadn’t gotten to you, too!”  She swallows.  “They took my cell, and Vinnie refused to call or disturb you until the morning.  So _excuse me_ , if I think being left alone with only my worst-case-scenarios to keep me company was penance enough!” 

Logan takes his eyes off the road, surprised. "Veronica, why wouldn't I be okay?"

Her voice rasps and she can barely speak around the lump in her throat.  "Don't you get it? He knows about you. This changes everything."

Stopping at the next red light, Logan turns his head, really looking at her. "Hey, I'm fine, okay?" He takes her hand again, sliding his fingers between hers.  Squeezes.  “Haven’t you realized by now?  I’m hard to kill.” 

 

* * *

 

Logan walks her to the door, a casual arm draped over her shoulders.  Maybe his instincts aren’t _all_ bad when it comes to her.  He’d always been intuitive to her emotional needs, able to see through her bulletproof façade, without ever making her feel weak or fragile. 

He opens the screen door, and turns to her. "You get some sleep, okay?"

While he’s clearly concerned for her wellbeing, there’s a cold distance in his expression. 

He’s still hurt.

And why wouldn’t he be?  Admitting her fear for him last night may have assuaged his anger, but it didn’t address the underlying problem. She’d assumed the worst of him – had ignored all signs pointing to him having matured – and that must’ve triggered old insecurities.  

Hadn’t that always been their sticking point? Even more than he’d wanted her love, Logan had craved her faith and trust.  For her to believe in _his_ love without asking him to justify every action and motive.  For her part, she’d had no trust to give.  She’d demanded answers, information, details.  Her worst nightmare? Being left in the dark.     

Maybe he finally gets it.  Understands why things will never work out between them.  _That’s a good thing.  Right?_ So then, what does the tingling ache in her chest signify? 

"Hey.  Don’t leave just yet." She grips his forearms, attempting to appear inviting, but probably only managing _entreating_.  She looks up from under her lashes.  "Share my birthday breakfast with me?"

“Veronica…”  Logan ducks his chin, loosens the band on his watch, and straightens his jacket. Glancing back up, he seems on the verge of declining.

_I’ve lost him.  He’s fed up with me and my issues._

The thought pulls air from her lungs.  “Logan?” 

Something in her expression seems to get through to him, and he changes his mind.  "Sure. Whatever you need." He turns the knob, guiding her inside with a hand on the small of her back.

He obviously wants to leave, and she considers telling him to forget it and go.  

"Is that my birthday girl?" Her dad calls from the kitchen. His footsteps draw near, and he emerges in the living room, drying his hands on a striped dish towel. He catches sight of Logan, and his lips flatten.

Veronica cuts off whatever he's about to say with a raised hand.  "This isn't what it looks like. Logan just gave me a ride home from the Sheriff's Department."

Keith sighs, shaking his head. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?”  He greets Logan with a handshake and the hint of a smirk. "Hey, dude."

Logan groans and rolls his eyes, as if this is some kind of inside Dad joke they’ve shared many times.  "That's County Supervisor Echolls to you."

Keith turns to Veronica, winks, and points at Logan.  “Can you believe the airs on this punk?  He forgets who sobered him up the first time he snuck a few beers down to Dog Beach.” 

When Veronica doesn't volley back the banter, he leans close, examines her eyes. "Is it that bad?"

She nods. "It's...pretty bad.

His eyebrows draw together and he casts a questioning glance at Logan. 

Before he can answer, a vehicle pulls into the driveway, and they all turn toward the door. 

Veronica wipes at her brow in an exaggerated ‘ _whew_ ’ gesture.  “Saved by the food truck.  I don’t know about you two, but I’m starving.” 

* * *

The chocolate chip pancakes were little bites of heaven. At first. But the novelty quickly waned.  Veronica continues shoveling bite-after-bite into her mouth, ignoring the sugar shock. Some might label this self-medicating, she calls it stalling. 

Logan sits on her right, picking at his food and chatting with her father about the weather, the Padres, and Neptune politics.  Both sneak worried glances at her when they think she’s not looking. 

She cuts off another piece of pancake, brings it to her mouth, and her stomach recoils.  Nausea floods her solar plexus, and she raises her eyes to the two men.  “That’s it.  One more bite, and I’m going to burst.” 

“What a coincidence.”  Her dad gives her his patented stare-of-penetration.  “Since I’m bursting with curiosity. Any chance you’re going to fill me in on what happened last night, or should I pay a visit to Vinnie?” 

“Yeah.  I’m ready to talk.”  Veronica sets down her fork, and meets her father’s eyes.  “About last night.  About _everything_.” 

Keith reaches out, presses the back of his hand against her forehead.  “You don’t _feel_ feverish.”

“Funny.” She jerks her head away.  “I actually mean it this time.” 

 “Guess that’s my cue to vamoose.”  Logan pushes back his chair and stands.

“Hey.”  Veronica locks her fingers around his wrist. “I kinda figured you’d want to stick around for confession hour?”

Logan’s mouth parts slightly, and he scrutinizes her, as if waiting for the punch line. 

She tugs his arm, and he sits back down with a rueful shake of his head.  “Sorry. I’m having a tough time reconciling the idea of Veronica Mars volunteering information without an argument.”     

Veronica leans in, locking gazes with him.  “This is me treating you like a man.” 

Logan sucks in a breath.  He tilts his head back to the ceiling, momentarily closing his eyes.  When they reopen, they’re soft and melty.  He squeezes her hand between both of his, and mouths the words, ‘Thanks!’. 

A sudden pang of emotion vibrates in her heart.  She can’t even explain to herself why it’s important for Logan to be here. Nothing’s changed. She still not looking for a relationship — especially one with Neptune High’s Most Likely to Break Hearts.

She smiles. He smiles back. 

“Ahem.”  Keith stands, rounding-up the empty containers. “When you two finish making googly eyes, maybe we can continue this conversation?” 

 “Googly eyes?”  Veronica scrunches up her face.  “I haven’t made googly eyes since I was twelve.” 

“That long?  It feels like just yesterday I had my little discussion with Logan, here.  You remember that?"

“Discussion?”  Logan smirks and crumples up his napkin.  “Is that what we’re calling castration-threats these days?” 

Keith circles the table, collecting the remaining plates and containers.  He squeezes Logan on the shoulder.  “You were always good at picking-up on the subtext.”  

Veronica detects no threat in her father's words.  Could this actually be harmless teasing?  

She lifts her bag from where it hangs on the back of her chair.  “Can you guys give me a few minutes to clean up before we do this?” 

“Go ahead.  I’ll brew more coffee.”  Her dad gestures towards the bathroom. 

She sets her SonicCare to one of the specialty modes – _polish_ maybe, or _deep clean_.  It’s not like she’s going to take it out of her mouth to read the label, and anyway, an extra minute of brushing, is one more minute avoiding uncomfortable conversation.  Her skin has acquired a pasty hue, nicely complementing her bloodshot eyes.  After a quick scrub with a terry washcloth, she applies deodorant and turns off the light. 

Her room still smells musty and unused.  Guess it takes more than a few days to make a place feel lived in.  The lumpy sofa bed beckons her like an oasis of calm.  If it was only her father waiting for her, she might abandon manners and take a nap.  Instead, she changes into a pair of yoga pants and a heather gray tee shirt in one of those silky microfabrics.

Hand on the doorknob, she bites her lip and turns around.  She grabs the strongbox from her closet shelf, and heads out to face the execution squad.   

The chief executioner, is still fiddling with the coffee maker, but Logan now waits in the living room.  Clutching a green coffee cup, he sits at the edge of the brown, distressed-leather couch, features indistinct in shadow. 

“Any reason why we’re sitting in the dark?” 

“ _Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness_ ,” Logan mumbles, adding, “Desmond Tutu.” 

“That’s sweet, but I think I need a less metaphorical kind of light.”  Setting down the box, Veronica circles the room, opening blinds, and turning on table lamps.  “There.  Much better.”

Logan smiles faintly, brow lifted and eyes crinkling.  “ _The truth is the light and the light is the truth._ ” 

Sighing, she gestures for him to get-on with his attribution.   

“Ralph Ellison.  The Invisible Man.” 

Bypassing the two arm chairs, she takes a seat next to him, and kisses his cheek.  “You are such a dork.”   

Logan glances down, almost shyly.  Tugs on the end of his sleeves, only to be thwarted by his cuff links.  "Thanks again.  I appreciate you including me."  

Interesting.  For all his swagger, new, confident Logan still suffers from occasional jitters.  She’s going to have to break him of that cuff link habit though, because…inconvenient. 

 _A_ _nd where the hell did that thought come from?_  

She waves away his words.  "You’re actually doing me a favor.  This is nerve-wracking enough, and with you here, my dad will be forced to keep his temper in-check.”

 “I heard that.”  Keith sings out from the kitchen doorway. 

“You were supposed to.”  She sings back. 

Her father enters, handing her a brown coffee mug, and keeps a green one for himself.  As he situates himself in an arm chair, she turns back to Logan, replacing the banter tone with sincerity.  “Mostly, I think…maybe you deserve to hear the truth.” 

"That means a lot."

Keith leans forward, intent on answers. "Alright, Kiddo.  Tell us what happened."

_Here we go._

She stands, meandering around the room, as she collects her thoughts.   
  
Framed Film-Noir movie posters dot the sky-blue painted walls.  To the right of the kitchen doorway, a French version of Orson Welles’ “Touch of Evil” ( _La Soif Du Mal_ ) features a nightgown-clad Janet Leigh cowering in fear. Veronica stomach curls in on itself, and she pivots around. 

Behind her (reflected in the aged mirror above the fireplace), Keith and Logan wear twin expressions of apprehension.  She lowers her gaze, down to the mantel where two antique oil lanterns – tall and short – sit beside a glass-encased baseball and a mariner’s-compass embedded in a wooden cube. Unlike their old apartment – where the décor reflected their combined personalities – this place is ALL Keith.  There’s no Veronica here. 

This conversation would be so much easier if she was on home turf.  Except she doesn’t have one anymore.  She’s turfless.    

No point in drawing it out any further.  _Just start with the easy part, Veronica, and let momentum pull you through._    

Turning back around, she swallows. "Madison Sinclair was murdered last night, and I found her body."

"Madison Sinclair..." Keith draws out the name, as if trying to place where he's heard it before. "She was a classmate of yours, right?  Was that the girl who had a fling with Don Lamb?”  At Veronica’s nod, he says, “Heard she’s a charity warrior these days.” 

"Yeah, seems that way."

Returning to her seat on the couch, Veronica narrates the events of the previous night: receiving the text message, hurrying-off to save Logan from getting a DUI (or worse), and finding Madison’s body instead.

Keith's steely gaze slides to her left, hard and suspicious. 

"Don't you even think about it." Veronica warns, "Logan did _not_ kill Madison."

“Listen, I know you two share some kind of bond, but push anybody hard enough, and…”

“Not. Logan.”

He tries a different tactic.  “You’re a cop, Veronica.  You should know better than anyone what people are capable of.” 

Logan hasn’t spoken a word during this exchange, but his eyes are wide with surprise and soft with emotion - as if she were Mother Theresa, Princess Leia, and the inventor of hair gel, all wrapped up in a five-foot package.  

Did he really think she would suspect him?

“How can you be sure?" her dad pushes. 

"Because he’s _Logan!”_ She fires back.  She takes a breath, modulating her tone.    “Anyway, I know who killed her. I mean...not his identity, but..." She trails off. "...It has to do with the reason I quit my job and moved back to Neptune."

She lifts her mug, two-handed, warms her palms on its surface. Takes a sip. "I believe at least three of my homicide cases can be attributed to a single killer."

Logan scoots closer. "A hit man? Or do you mean a serial killer?"

"Yes, an early-stage serial killer."

He slides his arm around her, hand pressing to her back in a protective gesture. 

"I took my suspicions to my lieutenant, asked him to call in a profiler."  She sets her jaw.  "I'd say that I was laughed out of his office, but there was no laughter involved. I was already on his shit-list for breaking his nose."

Keith, in the act of sipping his drink, nearly does a spit-take. It goes the other way, instead and, once he gets the coughing under control, he fixes her with wide, _'explanation, please'_ eyes.

"He grabbed my arm outside third crime scene. I acted on instinct."

He leans forward, again. "Why would he disregard your instincts about a killer?"

"The same reason my partner, sergeant, and squad did." Veronica shrugs, helpless. "I'm jumping at shadows, obviously. Nothing connects the victims, crime scenes, or cause of death. No common M.O., No common victim type."

Logan examines her. "But there had to be some commonality for you to connect the crimes, right.” 

"Oh, there definitely is," Veronica lifts her face to the ceiling, takes three measured breaths. "They all have the same murder weapon."

“But you just said...”  Keith shakes his head, frowns.  “What was the murder weapon?” 

Veronica's heart clenches. Moisture wells up in her left tear-duct and she scrubs it away before it can fall.

"Me." She laughs, and it sounds hollow and ugly to her own ears. "I'm the murder weapon."

There’s a suffocating heaviness to the silence that follows. It pushes in at her skull and out from her ribs.  Backup ceases to snore, and even the clock seems to stop ticking.

Her father stares at her like a stranger.  A suspect.  She wants to bolt from the room. The house. The state.

Then Logan entwines his fingers with hers, giving her an encouraging squeeze.  She searches his eyes, finding only concern and love. No hesitancy, no judgement. The fist wrapped around her heart loosens, and she finds the determination to continue.

"It started months ago.  A few weeks after my breakup with Pete, actually, so about eight months.”

Her father scowls, a reminder of how he’d been let down and disappointed by her ex. 

“Eammon O'Dowd - a detective on my squad - was getting married, and we all met for drinks at Kepler's, this sports bar outside the city limits.  I left the bar sometime around...eleven, I think."

* * *

_She starts her countdown-clock when Joe leaves.  Twenty minutes.  Enough time to finish her beer.  To feign interest while Camino tells the story about the surfer in the gorilla suit for the hundredth damn time.  Time enough for her departure to appear coincidental._

* * *

"I had one or two drinks that night, nowhere near the legal limit."  She slides the strongbox closer, enters the combination, and pulls out three manila folders.  Opening the one labeled Benson, she extracts a satellite map, placing it on the coffee table. 

Keith drags his chair closer, and both men bend their heads.   

"The fastest route back to…town was South Pinzon Boulevard, which winds through canyons and doesn't see a lot of traffic.”  Veronica traces her finger over the yellow highlight marking the route she drove that night.  “The speed limit is forty-five, but I may have been speeding a bit."

* * *

_It’s late, and she’s tired, questioning her decision to confine their affair exclusively to Joe’s place.  How nice would it be to get laid, kick him out, and crash?  To skip fumbling for her bra in the dark, and her neighbor’s barking dog alerting the entire building to her indecently late return._

_Still, she’s not willing to sacrifice the peace and contentment she’s discovered since reclaiming her apartment from Pete.  No dirty socks on the floor, no razer clippings in the sink.  The place is entirely, exclusively hers, orderly and eclectic.  She won’t ruin that by bringing another man around._

_Anyway, if she hurries, she might get to Joe’s while he’s still wet and slippery from the shower.  Some foreplay and a quick fuck, and with any luck she’ll be tucked-in her own bed by one-thirty._

* * *

"Magoo's Tavern is your typical biker roadhouse. Hand-painted flame-letters on a wooden sign you can't read under the burned-out streetlights.”  She taps her finger on a small structure marked with an X.   “Has a tiny postage-stamp of a lot that used to be gravel, but now is mostly dirt, potholes, and tire ruts. Customers driving anything larger than a bike tend to line up across the road on the right shoulder.” 

Keith squints, considering the location.  "I know the place.  Insurance company thought the owner was faking a body injury claim, and hired me to investigate."

"We’ve met.  I’m guessing he was innocent?"

* * *

_Her heart races and she can’t stop trembling all over.  His face is scary, with its burn scars and scraggly beard, but his eyes are gentle and kind.  A bear of a man, Griller Dave walks with a pronounced limp, leading her behind the bar and into the kitchen.  He snatches a stack of clean bar towels, handing her one after saturating it in the sink.  He speaks – on and on, calm and steady, but she can’t hear much beyond the roaring in her ears.  She concentrates on washing away the blood.  So. Much. Blood.  Her hands, forearms, shirt, the knees of her jeans.  Two towels, three towels, four._

_After, he produces a brand new Magoo’s Tavern tee-shirt, apologizing for the size (“Sorry, we only have extra-large”), but not for the bare-breasted women-figures humping the logo.  He installs her in a corner booth, plies her with coffee and mozzarella sticks while the crime scene techs do their thing._

* * *

“He was the genuine article.”  Her dad confirms, “Bad motorcycle accident.  He’s lucky to be alive.” 

Again, she traces the highlight on the map.  "Magoo's was on my left as I approached. The Sebring's top was down, and my brights were on. One of the bar's doors must have been open, because I could hear a Blues band inside tearing-up that old Allman Brothers tune, _'Whipping Post'_."  

* * *

_She reduces her speed as she approaches that old biker bar Captain Mears used to rant about. It’s busy tonight, the parking lot filled with several dozen Harleys symmetrically aligned like the world’s riskiest Rube Goldberg scenario.  Live Blues music spills out into the night, reminding her of senior year stakeouts outside the Blue Angel._

_Back then, she’d feared the…animal sort of feelings invoked by the raunchy gravel tones of the house band singer.  If Duncan ever knew she had THOSE types of thoughts, felt THAT way…   She was a dirt-spattered girl, longing to be clean._

_Now she wears the white hat – carries a badge and everything – yet finds herself yearning for gray.  For the recklessness and adrenaline.  The dirt.  A sudden urge fills her.  Pull over, turn off the lights, text Joe that she can’t make it, and just listen for a while.    Wait.  What’s that?_

* * *

"Something shiny flashed between two parked cars on the right. It took me a moment to realize two people were standing there. I thought they were waiting to cross the road.”  Taking a deep breath, she continues.  “Then the taller man _shoved_."

Logan hisses through his teeth. 

Her father goes pale. "Oh, honey."

* * *

_Time freezes.  Just long enough to take in the man’s bulging eyes, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a rictus of terror.  A stab of fear in her chest.  Then metal crashes into muscle.  A howl of pain and broken glass.  The crush of a seat belt jerking tight, and then the thump of wheels over flesh.  Screeching brakes and burned rubber._

* * *

"It took a second or two for the vehicle to come to a complete stop, and I watched _him_ in the mirror. Standing over the victim in one of those reflective-stripe jackets bicycle riders wear."

Logan shudders and swallows. "So, you saw his face?"

She shakes her head. "It was too dark. He was just a man-shaped silhouette. I pulled over, turned on my emergency blinkers, and dialed 911. By the time I opened my car door, the second man was gone, leaving the jacket on the ground next to the victim."

Suddenly chilly, Veronica wraps her arms around herself, rubbing her own shoulder to create friction.

Her dad rises, grabs a celery green chenille throw from the back of his chair, and drapes it over her.

She offers him the requisite ‘thank you’ smile, bracing herself for the inevitable questions:  _Have you considered it might have been a random murder?  A crime of opportunity?  How could this killer possibly predict you would be driving the approaching car? What if you’d stayed at the bar longer?  Or stopped for gas?  What if you’d driven a different route?  What if he WAS targeting a specific driver, but you got there first?_

She’s heard it all before.  They’re valid questions, logical and fairly obvious.  _She’s_ the one who comes off across like a crazy person.  The disbelief, the concern, the condescension – she’s used to it now. 

But not from these two.  _Please_ not from these two.  If they don’t believe her…  Her throat tightens.   

Logan stares at the ceiling, eyes are narrowed in thought.

“What?” she demands.

A moment of hesitation, and he answers, "He wanted you to see him."

Keith lifts a brow. "Why do you think that?"

"Why not take off the jacket _before_ pushing the guy? For his plan to work, he needed to make sure Veronica didn’t stop the car in time.  So why risk wearing the jacket at all?  Unless he wanted her know he was there?”

"That's exactly what I think. The reflector called my attention to them, and to the shove.  If I hadn’t seen it, I would've assumed the victim was some drunk who stumbled out in front of my vehicle."

"So, you think it was premeditated.  Not random." her dad observes.

* * *

_His mouth opens and closes like a fish on land, and she skids to her knees beside him.  Blood puddles below his body; more bubbles out from his nose and mouth.  His teeth are cracked and broken, his jaw askew._

_‘Apply pressure to the wound’.  That’s all she knows.  All she can do until the paramedics arrive.  Where is the wound?  She rips at his tee shirt, finds a particularly jagged gash in his crushed body, and pushes the fabric of his hoodie against it._

_He’s trying to speak, but the words are inaudible.  She lowers her ear to his mouth._

_His voice rasps.  “Ambushed.  At my apartment.”_

_Voices shouting, bikers spilling out from the bar, several sprinting in this direction._

_"Who did this to you?  Was it one of these men?”_

_The victim shakes his head.  Gasps out.  “Didn’t know him.  Don’t know…”   He coughs up blood, takes a moment to get control.  “Don’t know why.  What did I do?”_

_Then they’re surrounded.  Steadier hands take over.  Calmer voices speak.  She’s lost her chance._

* * *

"The victim was still alive.  Just barely.  I tried to get answers while I attended to him, but all I learned was that the perp was a stranger.  He died before the ambulance arrived."

Keith leans forward, forearms resting on his knees.  “I have to ask.  Could it have been Pete?  The timing seems suspicious.” 

“I _know_ it wasn’t Pete.”  She opens the folder again, rifling through the contents. 

Her dad persists.  “Just like you know it wasn’t Logan last night?  Pete seems harmless, but that doesn’t mean—”

Veronica slaps a photo down on the table – two men tanned and smiling with the Vegas strip behind them. 

* * *

_Dr. Jake Benson, is eighteen-months older, and the last surviving relative of his deceased brother, Richard.  Tears steal down his face as he navigates through photos on his laptop._

_He’s tall and muscular, a handsome, square-jawed man, with dark hair and compelling hazel eyes.  Veronica discerns no family resemblance to the victim.  In fact, Richard Benson could’ve passed for her **own** brother, with his slight build, pale blond coloring, and pointy features.     _

_Veronica wears objectivity like body armor.  Since joining the force, she’s interviewed hundreds of friends and family-members.  She’s not known for sensitivity – she can be downright intrusive in her questioning – but she makes up for that by providing justice for their loved ones._

_For the first time, she can’t produce the emotional distance she requires to be effective.  Despite never having met the victim, Dr. Benson’s loss feels like her own, and she has to stop herself more than once from pressing a comforting hand to his shoulder._

_High school sports, college, shared vacations, the photos tell a story of two brothers who were also the best of friends._

_“Are you sure your brother never frequented Magoo’s Tavern?  He wears that jacket quite a bit.”_

_The jacket in question, a leather motorcycle jacket with thick zippers (much like Weevil Navarro used to wear), appears in at least half of the photos – starting in the teen years and lasting well into adulthood._

_Dr. Benson shakes his head.  “Just an affectation.  He was always a little guy.  Wearing that made him feel tough or dangerous or something.  But he’s never ridden a motorcycle in his life, and his circle-of-friends runs closer to hipster vegan yogis than bikers.”_

* * *

Veronica points to the shorter man in the photograph.  “Richard Benson.  The victim.  Thirty-two, blond, and blue eyed.  Five foot seven inches, one hundred sixty-three pounds.  You know who else stands around five foot seven?” 

Keith pretends to think it over.  “I haven’t measured myself lately, but that’s what my driver’s license says.  I’m guessing Pete’s does, as well?”

“Give the man a prize.”  She points at him.  “I only got a quick glimpse of the killer, but he clearly had several inches on Mr. Benson, yourself, _and_ my ex-boyfriend.  If I had to guess, I’d put him somewhere between five foot eleven and six foot one.” 

Keith’s eyes swing toward Logan. 

Veronica’s mouth drops. “You can’t be serious.”

He plays innocent.  “I’m seriously curious about Logan’s take on the matter, if that’s what you’re asking?” 

_Nice try, old man._

Logan clearly knows better, but plays diplomat.  “I guess I’m waiting to hear what else happened before I form any kind of opinion.” 

“Right.  The rest of the story.”  She twists the inside of the blanket between her fingers, drawing it tighter around her shoulders.  "The second murder wasn't quite as traumatic. I wasn't there. Or at least I didn't witness it."

She rifles through the contents of a second folder, placing three photos of the same woman on the table.  The subject is glowingly, vibrantly alive, and so heart-breakingly beautiful that Logan inhales, and Keith averts his eyes. 

“Kim Biwan.  Twenty-three, Korean. Bank teller by day, YouTube makeup artist by night.  Single, but looking, according to her online dating profile."

Logan places a hand on the small of her back.  "What happened?”

“What happened,” she repeats.

* * *

_The address is easy enough to find – the bird’s nest of broken boards and rubble is sort-of a giveaway.  Before they’ve even parked, the smell of burnt flesh infiltrates the car through the vents._

_Veronica grabs Vapo-Rub from the glove compartment, smears some under her nose and – after passing the jar to her partner – exits the vehicle._

_Onlookers have gathered outside the perimeter, curious and aghast.  A hunched, elderly woman with a fresh blowout (or a great wig), three day-drinking soccer moms still clutching their oversized wine glasses, a middle-aged couple with rumpled clothing, a truant high-school boy, and a well-dressed man of around thirty._

_The crime scene team will have photographed each of them, but Veronica takes her own mental snapshots.  Arson suspects are notorious for hanging around crime scenes._

_She waves over a uniform, instructs him to collect names, phone numbers, and copies of any available video footage._

_Falling in at her side, Joe hands her a pair of gloves, and lifts the crime scene tape for her to duck under._

_Chief Thompson of Engine Sixty-two meets them halfway.  Mid-fifties and paunchy around the middle.  He’s the kind of man who goes to great effort to avoid treating women as equals._

_Veronica isn’t here for that.  She interrupts him as he greets Joe, thanks Joe for coming, asks Joe about traffic on the ride over. “Let me guess.  Some genius figured he’d make his murder go-away by staging it as an unfortunate accident?”_

_Thompson furrows his brow, shoots Joe a ‘control-your-female’ look. “Not even close.  Can’t make explosives look like an accident, and the vic was left handcuffed to a metal chair.  If I had to guess, she was probably alive at detonation.”_

_Smoke wafts up from at least a dozen spots in the rubble.  Clumps of pink insulation contrast brightly against the dullness of boards, bricks, and glass.  A single Louboutin boot – stiletto-end staked into the ground – tilts backwards, as if in mid-kick.._

_Behind an ambulance (in what remains of the driveway) paramedics zip closed a body bag, and hoist._

_“What do we know so far?” Joe asks._

_Thompson shrugs.  “Nothing yet.  All I have is the victim’s name.”  He glances down at his clipboard.  “Kim Biwan?”_

_She jerks her attention back.  “Where have I heard that name before?”_

* * *

A shiver runs down Veronica’s spine.  "It was an explosion in a sleepy middle-class neighborhood.  Fire Department called in Homicide when they found handcuffs on the body.” 

* * *

_When the phone rings, it’s like being forcibly pulled from a rabbit hole.  She glances at the clock, startled to find that four hours have passed since she typed in the URL for Kim Biwan’s YouTube channel.  Four fascinating and informative, yet ultimately fruitless hours – unless, for some reason, she needs to draw the perfect winged eyeliner._

_“Mars.” She answers the phone brusquely._

_“Ver-on-i-ca!  It’s Nathan.  From the lab,” the caller speaks in a rough, pack-a-day voice.  “Getting back to you on the Biwan case.”_

_“Well hello, Nathan from the lab.  Whatcha got for me?”  She plucks the case file from a vertical document stand, flips it open, and skims her notes as he speaks._

_He launches into an spiel about C4, its capabilities, thermodynamic values, detonation velocity and—_

_“Nathan!” she interrupts.  “In English.”_

_“Amateur job.  Not sloppy by any means, but not the work of a professional.  On the other hand, the unsub placed the stuff for maximum damage, which indicates having knowledge of how explosives effect structural integrity.  Whether that was on-the-job, or self-taught, I can’t say.”  The shrug in his voice goes without saying.  “We uncovered none of the usual ‘signatures’ common with terror cells, so you can probably rule that out.  The victim’s cell phone was the detonator.”_

_“Great!  I’ll pull her cell records.  It’s a long shot, but—”_

_“Already ahead of you.  I actually have the phone number that detonated the explosives.”_

_“And?”_

_“Well, that’s where things get interesting.”_

* * *

“Veronica?” Keith prompts. 

“Right.”  She shakes off the memory.  “The victim’s house was rigged with plastic explosives, which were detonated by her own phone.”

"Like the bus crash, Senior year," Logan says.

"Similar.” Veronica nods.  “Minus the moving target.  Our lab guy was able to pull the phone number that detonated the bomb.”   

"Burner phone?" Logan guesses.

Veronica shakes her head. "The call actually came from _my_ phone. My desk phone at the precinct, to be specific."

Keith narrows his eyes. "You called the victim?"

She flips through the folder again, pulling out a color copy of a ‘ **WHILE YOU WERE OUT’** message-slip addressed to ‘ **MARS** ’.  It identifies the date, names the caller as K Biwan and shows a phone number.

In the message field, Gina Peralta’s messy script reads: ‘ **Has information on one of your cases.  Refused transfer.  Will only speak to you**.’

“This was on my desk when I arrived at the precinct that morning.  It wasn’t anything unusual.  Witnesses are often cagey and suspicious.  I returned the call, allowed it ring a few times, and left a voicemail message.  Then I tossed the slip in my desk drawer, and headed out to work on existing cases.”   Veronica catches herself stabbing the side of her ring finger with the corner of her pinky fingernail, a nervous habit she picked up somewhere, and repeats often enough to have formed a hard callous. “It never even crossed my mind that a simple phone call could end the life of another human being."

She didn’t do anything wrong.  So why does guilt still chew-her-up inside? 

Logan bumps her shoulder.  "Strangely enough, I can relate.”

“C’mon, you can’t possibly—”

“No, seriously.  Remember when they found Thumper Orozco’s remains in the wreckage of Shark Stadium a few weeks after I pushed the plunger?”

“Okay, I can see the correlation.” 

“Good, because I had this brilliant girlfriend back then, and she used to remind me it wasn't my fault whenever I'd start feeling crappy about it."

"If you hadn't won that essay contest, somebody else would've.”

“As you told me many times that summer.”  Logan takes her hand, presses his lips to her knuckles and speaks gently.  “And if you hadn’t called the victim that morning, somebody else would’ve.”   

She acknowledges his point with a weak smile.  He’s not wrong.  Even the victim’s mother kept circling back to how close she'd come to killing her own daughter.  After receiving no response to her earlier call, she'd dialed the victim's landline minutes before the explosion, and her cell, five minutes after.   

In no hurry to move on to the next part of the story, Veronica searches her memory for more details.    

She could describe the autopsy report, detailing how the victim struggled against her handcuffs for hours – probably overnight – but that’s a bit gruesome.  And it doesn’t explain why Mrs. Biwan’s 8:22 AM phone call to her daughter's cell hadn’t detonated the explosives, but Veronica’s 8:51 AM call _had_.  The killer must’ve armed the device and left between those two phone calls, but if she mentions that, it’ll sound like she’s reaching.  _Stick to the facts, Veronica._

She downs the last inch of lukewarm coffee and asks her dad for a fresh cup. 

Excusing herself to the bathroom, she splashes water on her face, tries to psych herself up to continue. 

Both men glance mildly at her when she returns.  Which probably means they’ve decided to downplay their worry for her benefit.   

 “Thanks, dad.”  She lifts her replenished mug, blows on it, and sips. 

A small golden acorn sits on a notepad, next to the end table lamp.  Drawn to it, she picks it up, turning it over and around, inspecting the details.  It’s quite cute, but she’s positive her father never would have purchased this for himself.  Which means…  She drops it like it’s on fire, using the tip of her finger to nudge it back into place.   

She speaks without preamble.  "The third victim was the worst." The mere memory is a clot of nausea in her gut.

"Hey." Logan places his hand on her knee. "You don't have to talk about it, If you're not ready."

"I appreciate that, but I think I need to get it out. It was..." Her voice is hoarse, and she swallows, starts over. "It was three weeks ago."

Keith lifts his eyes to the ceiling as if gathering-up his strength. She'd held off telling him for good reason. He doesn't need this kind of stress.   

The third folder is marked “WARNER”.  Veronica lays out three photos, each portraying a freckled, auburn-haired woman with warm brown eyes.  In the first two, she wears Army fatigues, in the third, she sits in a wheelchair.

“Abigail Warner.  Twenty-seven.  Paralyzed from the waist down four years ago, during a roadside blast in Afghanistan.” 

A printout of an email joins the photos on the table.   

 

 

From: wisestowl26@gmail.com

Subject: Private

To: veronica.mars@sdpd.com

_Detective Mars,_

_I’m contacting you with an urgent matter about my cousin, Jeff.  He doesn’t know it, but today I overheard him admit to providing a false alibi for a murderer in exchange for cash.  I don’t know who the victim was, but he bragged about getting one over on “that blonde cop, Mars”, and insinuated that somebody else may be serving time for the crime._

_I can’t come in to the station.  I’m disabled and don’t have time to arrange special transportation, but it’s imperative I meet with you tomorrow morning.  Can you stop by my house?  I live at 785 Jefferson Street in Normal Heights._

_My cousin spent today packing up a U-Haul and plans to take off for Virginia as soon as he gets off work tomorrow, so we need to act quick if we want to stop him._

_Abigail Warner  
TTY (619) 555-6789_

 

“I called her back immediately, and made arrangements to meet at 9:00 AM.  Or at least, I _thought_ I did.” 

Logan glances up from reading the email.  “What does that mean?” 

“The IED that took Ms. Warner’s legs also damaged her vocal chords.  In order to communicate, she had this special text-to-speech phone.  She could type her responses on a keyboard, and they’d be translated to computer voice. Kinda like Siri.” 

“So it’s possible somebody else answered your call.”  Keith rubs the top of his head, with a frustrated sigh. 

Veronica nods.  “I think it was _him_.”

“You showed up the next morning?” Logan asks.

“Yeah.” 

* * *

_Veronica parks on the street, using her remaining ten minutes to wolf down a banana nut muffin and a bottle of OJ.  She’d skipped breakfast this morning, instead, heading to the precinct at the crack of dawn to comb through old case files.  Six folders are tucked in her bag, chosen due to a witness named Jeff, or a suspect with a too-convenient alibi, or simple gut instinct._

_An old-fashioned white picket fence encircles the front yard of Ms. Warner’s bungalow.  Waist-high, and wooden, it’s long overdue for a fresh coat of paint.  She opens the gate, carefully latching it behind her._

_A prickle of sensation rises along the back of her neck.  Somebody’s watching her._

_Not downstairs - heavy drapes cover those windows.  She lifts her gaze to the dormer, but if there was anyone there, they’re gone now._

_She continues down the walk, and up the step to the porch.  A plaque, displaying the universal wheelchair symbol asks delivery people to be patient, and cold callers to get lost._

_Veronica rings the doorbell._

_A cry issues from the other side of the door - terrified and muffled, as if from behind a hand or a gag._

_Goosebumps lift on Veronica’s flesh, and she draws her weapon._

* * *

"When I rang the bell, I heard sounds of distress coming from inside the house, so I called for backup.” 

* * *

_Regulation calls for Veronica to stay-put and wait for backup to arrive, but she has a very bad feeling about what’s going on inside.  “Cousin Jeff” has a strong motive for keeping Ms. Warner quiet, and ten minutes could mean the difference between life and death._

_Unable to catch even a glimpse of the interior through the windows, Veronica backs off the porch, placing each foot carefully to avoid creaking boards._

_She sticks close to the hedges, hopping the low fence between front yard and driveway.  Four first-floor windows on this side of the house are well above her head, and even were she to find something to stand on, the mini-blinds are drawn tight._

_At the back of the house, a wooden wheelchair ramp zig-zags up to the back door._

_Veronica hesitates, gun trained on the detached garage at the end of the driveway.  It’s closed up, but wouldn’t it be just her luck for somebody to come running out the side door the moment she turns her back?_

_She waits it out for a minute, but the tingle between her shoulder blades has subsided.  Maybe he can’t see her from here?_

_She takes a chance, moving up the ramp at a crouch._

* * *

"Take your time, honey." Keith says.  
  
“I circled the residence, but the only glimpse inside was through this small window on the back door.”  _He’d_ wanted it that way.  Later, she’d found the door’s café curtains, draped over the back of chair. 

"What did you see?" Logan whispers.

"Just an open space with a row of hooks, over a bench.  A mud room, maybe. But I could see straight into the kitchen.  Ms. Warner’s wheelchair was in profile to me, facing right, but I could see that she was shackled to it, and had a gag tied around her mouth.”

* * *

_The victim’s head lolls back, and Veronica fears she’s too late.  She was too slow, too cautious, in making her way around the house._

_Abigail Warner rouses with an alert tilt of the head, as if listening for noise.  She stares at something Veronica can't see.  Something (or someone) tall, from the angle of her gaze._ _She shudders, shakes her head, and turns, listless and exhausted, towards the back door._

_Noticing Veronica, her eyes bulge out, terror-filled._

* * *

"She saw me looking in and started wailing, shaking her head back and forth, and thrashing side-to-side in her chair, like she was trying to knock it over.  I assumed _he_ was in the house, waiting to ambush me.  I shushed her." Veronica twists her hands together, nausea building in her gut. “I lifted my finger to my lips and tried to shush this utterly terrified woman.” 

“What’s the alternative, Veronica?” Her dad asks gently.  “She was jeopardizing your cover.” 

Veronica shrugs. Because all the logic in the world can’t alleviate that hard knot of guilt that lives in her belly, but arguing is pointless. 

"I checked the door then, but it was dead-bolted.  So I had no choice to return to the front." 

“To wait for backup, right?” her dad prompts, trying to guide her into saying what he wants to hear.

A quick flick of Logan's eyes - to Keith and away again - reminds her how well he knows her.  

“Not exactly."  Veronica drops her eyes.  "I couldn’t just stand around doing nothing, so I called inside to determine if the perp had any hostage demands.  When nobody answered, I continued calling out questions."    

She takes a moment to sip from her coffee.  "The victim's cries had progressed beyond hysterical, into blood-curdling.”  Her chest tingles. Her ribs are too tight.

Logan places his palm on her lower back, fingers spanning wide.    

“I didn't wait for backup." A shaky sob escapes, and she closes her eyes, pressing her fist to her mouth. Breathes in through her nose. "I turned the doorknob and, finding it unlocked, I threw it open and dropped down to a crouch.  That’s when I heard the gunshot.” 

* * *

_Veronica hits the ground, one hand coming up to protect her head.  The ringing in her ears drowns out any other sound, and she tastes gun powder on her breath.  Pain radiates somewhere between her navel and her waist.  Was she hit?_

_Scrambling behind a recliner for cover, she peels off her jacket and inspects the wound.  Not a gun shot, after all._ _A large shard of glass is embedded in her flesh.  Nearly blacking-out from the pain,_ _she has to bite her lip to keep from hissing as she pulls it out.  Her eyes blur and she swears, if she survives this day, she's going somewhere isolated, and she's going to scream until no more sound comes out._

_Speaking of which, Ms. Warner is thankfully silent now. Veronica listens for footsteps, creaking floorboards, heavy breathing. Anything that might pinpoint the perp’s location.  He certainly knows HERS, and she'd  better get moving.  Upholstery is no match for bullets._

_She peeks around the side of the chair. An overturned accent table lays on the floor beside_ _a shattered candy dish (the cause of her injury), and few dozen Hershey’s Kisses.  The living room offers little in the way of cover.  The few pieces of furniture Abbie Warner owns, are spread wide to accommodate her wheelchair._

_Under the stairs, rows of shelves are built right into the wall.  They house hundreds of books and an impressive collection of owls – plush owls, glass owls, clay, wooden, and candle-wick owls._

_An owl-shaped clock tick-tocks loudly above the doorless entrance to the kitchen.  Visible through the opening, chunks of hamburger meat are inexplicably scattered across a terra-cotta floor._

_Veronica inches forward on hands and knees, now detecting the stench of urine and feces.  And something else.  Burnt rubber, maybe?_

_It’s times like these where she misses being able to hurt people with impunity.  She wants to press her taser into this fucker’s belly and zap him until his eyes roll back in his head.  What kind of sadist would torture a paralyzed veteran?_

_And what’s taking her backup so long?  She glances back towards the front door, and that’s when she sees the wire.  Threaded through an eyebolt, it loops around a pulley, and up the wall to a ceiling-mounted shotgun.  A shotgun aimed not at the front door, but at the kitchen._

_Veronica dry heaves, barely managing to keep down her muffin._

_That wasn’t hamburger meat on the kitchen floor, and Abigail Warner wasn’t trying to warn her about an impending ambush._

_Pushing up to her knees, she scans the room through blurry vision, but it’s pointless.  She already knows he’s not here._ _Either he slipped out the front door while she was in the back, or he’s somewhere nearby, watching and waiting for the discovery of his handiwork._

_Or let's be honest, HER handiwork._

_Crimson hand prints on the beige carpeting remind her that she’s still wounded, and she needs to...  She squints.  Are those lines on the carpet?_

_She rises to her feet.  Yep.  Definitely lines.  N_ _ot the evenly-spaced tracks of a wheelchair, these are vacuum tracks.  The kind of  deliberate, purposeful, tracks housekeepers left in the mansions and penthouse suites of Neptune._ _The kind of tracks that…_

_Her blood turns to ice.  The image zooms out, the focus clears, and the big-picture clicks into place._

* * *

“Veronica?”

* * *

_She tries to inhale, but it's like somebody's sitting on her chest.  She can't get oxygen._

* * *

“Veronica!”

* * *

_Her lungs aren’t functioning.  Something’s wrong with her.  Her pulse is pounding, and that wasn’t hamburger meat._

* * *

“Mr. Mars! Help me get her to her feet.” 

* * *

_Black spots dance across her vision.  She’s sweat-soaked and dizzy.  The room is spinning, and she can’t. Fucking. Breathe._

* * *

“Why should we—”

“Just do it, okay?  I know what this is.”  Logan says.  “Let’s get her moving.” 

He pulls her arm around his neck, and her dad supports her from the other side. 

After several seconds of halting, staggering progress, Veronica’s equilibrium stabilizes and her respiration normalizes.  “I’m okay,” she whispers. 

Her dad exhales in relief.  “You scared us there.” 

“I…?”

“You hyperventilated.”  Logan watches her with an expression that can only be described as _knowing_.  

“You're probably dehydrated.  Let me grab you a glass of water.”  Keith leaves the room without waiting for an answer. 

Logan nudges her chin.  “You okay?” 

“No.”  She gives him a watery smile.  “Not really.”

“Come here.” He pulls her into his arms.  She squeezes him, presses her face into his crisp, white shirt.  He’s solid and warm and so very alive. 

“Logan?” 

“Hmm?”

She pulls back just enough to see him.  “I know I’ve been a bit…standoffish or unreceptive these past few days.”

“Hey.  You don’t have to explain yourself to me.  I just want—”

She cuts him off.  “I’m glad to have you back in my life.  Even if it’s just…”

Logan presses her cheek back to his chest, smooths his hand over the back of her hair, and kisses the top of her head.  “I’m here as long as you'll allow me to be.” 

Veronica pictures herself kissing him.  Not a passionate kiss, but a quiet, honest one.  A feather light brush of the lips to articulate what she can't say with words:   _I don't regret confiding in you.  Thank you for listening without judgement.  How lucky am I to still have you in my corner after all this time?_

She checks the impulse.  Wrong time.  Wrong place.  Wrong gesture.  

Keith, returning with her water, halts at the sight of them.  Reluctantly, Veronica half-turns in Logan's arms, and she must make a pathetic sight, because sympathy washes over her dad's face.  

"Oh, honey!" He sets down the glass, crosses the room, and enfolds her in a second set of arms.  

She drops her face to his shoulder, fumbles behind her for Logan's hand, and lingers for minute, content in the feeling of being embraced from all sides.  Her dad's vintage aftershave - the same stuff he wore all throughout her childhood - complements, rather than clashes with Logan's earthier scent.  In a bizarre way, that seems like a metaphor for _everything_.    

She feels it in the space behind her rib cage, a sensation of both expansion and softening.  It's as if her heart and lungs have been crammed into an undersized box, and somebody's finally removed the lid.  

Her eyes flood, this time with healing, cathartic tears.  She's safe here.  These two men would do anything for her.  Her dad would give his life to protect her, and, just maybe, Logan would too.  

Her job is to make sure it never comes to that.  

"I'm okay."  She lifts her head.  "I'm okay."

"You sure?"  Keith scrutinizes her as she sniffles and wipes away tears.  

"Yeah.  I'm feeling calmer now."  

He purses his lips, but seems to take her at her word, and backs several feet away. 

Veronica picks up her water, makes a show of drinking from it, and returns to her spot on the couch.  "So where was I?"

"Gunshot," Logan says, leaning back against the wall and crossing his feet at the ankles.  

"Right.  Well, the front door was a booby-trapped."  She squares her shoulders, determined to retain her composure for the remainder of the story.  "The other doors were locked, and all the blinds and curtains were pulled tight.  He showed me what he wanted me to see, led me where he wanted me to follow, and I behaved like the perfect little rat in a maze."  

"Fuck, Veronica," Logan casts his eyes to the ceiling with that hound-dog expression he gets when he's worried and trying to hide it.  

"I don't know why it took me so long to connect the dots.  I knew something… _funny_ was going on.  I knew somebody had been in and out of my apartment.  For months, I would come home and find my possessions out-of-place.  Deliberately so, like a taunt. Or I'd sense somebody watching me out in public. I half-convinced myself I was going crazy. But that day with the shotgun..." She shudders. "I just knew."

"The guy got into your _apartment?"_ There's a hysterical edge to Logan's voice, and he pushes off the wall, strides to the window and peeks out through the blinds.  His right hand curls into a fist, and his jaw clenches.  

"I think so? I mean, I changed the locks twice in the past year.  And I never came home to find the door open or tampered with.  But I knew it in my gut."   _Thanks to the cut-lines in the carpet_ _._

Veronica typically vacuums in a fan-shaped motion - pulling the Dyson in towards her body, slightly modifying the angle, and pushing it away again.  It's about efficiency, not aesthetic.   

The tracks appeared for the first time back in February, when she returned home to find the carpet's pile compressed in alternating straight lines, giving the appearance of damask stripes.  Apprehension prickled her scalp, but she convinced herself she'd done it during some kind of auto-pilot vacuuming session.  The second time, she assumed it was a bizarre prank by her still bitter ex, Pete, and changed the locks.  It continued over the next six months, but without any sort of schedule.  

It wasn't until the Abbie Warner crime scene that she realized this was much bigger than some creepy stalker trying to frighten her.  The stripes in the victim's carpet were just like the stripes in her own.  

Veronica was willing to accept the Kim Biwan killing as an unfortunate, devastating coincidence, but _nobody_ accidentally kills three people.  She pulled the unsolved case files for Benson and Biwan, scouring them for overlaps, but found no mention of carpet.  

According to Nathan at the crime lab, the carpet at the Biwan scene had been too melted to yield much evidence.  She had a bit more luck with the crime scene tech for the Benson case.  

* * *

_Lunch with Stephanie Vega is like getting a glimpse into how she must look to others.  Petite, with small, wiry muscles and a hawkish nose, Stephanie orders four appetizers, slathers everything with sour cream, and cleans out the bread basket twice.  She's unapologetically herself, and Veronica likes her._

_"So...you wanna know about the Benson case?" she asks between bites.  "I'm not sure how much I can help.  With the plethora of unrelated debris, vehicular crime scenes can be..."  She trails off, making a you-know-the-rest gesture._

_"Actually, I wanted to talk  to you about the secondary crime scene.  The victim's home, where he was abducted.  The carpet specifically."_

_"What about it?"_

_"Did you notice anything unusual about it?  And kind of vacuuming pattern?"_

_Stephanie pops a battered mushroom in her mouth, and lifts her eyes, thinking back.  "Yeah, actually.  Somebody had already run a grid pattern on the carpet before we came in."_ _She produces a pen, leaving greasy fingerprints as she sketches out a pattern on a napkin - left, right, left, right, left, a small downward-facing loop, and then down, up, down, up, down, ending at the same corner from which she began._

[ ](http://imgur.com/BQheqrC)

_"Grid search pattern - it's one of our methods for collecting trace evidence." S_ _he snags a jalapeno popper from one of her plates.    "I HATE it when they do that.  Makes evidence collection a bitch."_

_"They?  You've seen this before?"_

_Stephanie holds up a finger while she finishes chewing.  "It's not as uncommon as you might think.  Criminals are getting smarter."_

_Veronica leans forward. "Do you remember seeing visible stripes in the carpet? "_

_"I can't really say.  My team was already processing the scene when I arrived."  She makes a be-my-guest gesture at her remaining appetizers, and Veronica declines.  "_ _Anyway, we a_ na _lyzed the contents of the vacuum, b_ _ut never found anything of relevance."_

* * *

The lab reports for the Abbie Warner case came back three days later and, big surprise, they showed the same vacuum grid pattern.  In fact, this time, the perp rinsed out the vacuum's bin, taking the dirt and both filters with him when he left.  Unsurprisingly, there was a scarcity of trace evidence.   

The stripes weren't some kind of psychopath calling-card after all.  This guy was erasing every hint of his existence.  

She won't have access to the crime scene reports for Madison's death.  Then again, who is she kidding? This is Neptune, where all it takes are a few bags of ice to confuse the crime lab.  She's not going to hold her breath for competent evidence collection.  

But Veronica hasn't a doubt in her mind that it's the same guy.  The stripes on Madison's bedroom carpet were easy enough to spot.

"I'm guessing the Cousin Jeff clue was a dead end?" her father asks, and it takes her a moment to backtrack through her thoughts.  

"Yeah.  Abigail Warner didn't have any cousins.  On either side.  Her parents were only children.  She didn't even have any friends named Jeff."  

Her dad nods, as if he expected this answer.  "Have you been investigating this on your own?"

"There hasn't been much to go on. He's a ghost. I begged my sergeant to call in a profiler. My lieutenant. They called them coincidences. While they acknowledged that the perp in the third incident had targeted me specifically, they refused to see a connection with the other incidents. How could the guy have predicted that I would be driving past the roadhouse at that specific moment? How could he have predicted that my call would be the one to detonate Kim Biwan's phone, and not, for example, her mother? I begged my partner to back me up, but he only parroted their words. He didn't believe me."  
  
"I believe you," Logan returns to the couch, sitting close enough for their legs to touch.

"So do I. I trust in your instincts."  Her dad leans across the table, squeezing her forearm.

"They wouldn't help me, and I couldn't help myself. The longer I remained on the force, the more people who might die as pawns in the sick game this bastard is playing. So, I quit my job and ran away.”  She spreads her arms wide.  “So here I am, in Neptune."  

"It was your only choice," Keith says.  

"How can you say that?  Madison Sinclair is dead."  

"Don't."  Logan's tone is sharp and he pierces her with his eyes.  "Stop it with the self-recrimination.  If this guy is as obsessed with you as I think he is, he would've followed you anywhere.  L.A., San Fran, Vegas, wherever.  At least here, you have people who love you.  If this guy wants to get to you, he's going to have to go through me."  

"And me," her dad says.

"And Wallace, and Weevil, and Mac," Logan adds.  "Hell, even Dick.  You're not alone anymore, Veronica."  

"You guys are going to get yourself killed," Veronica says, surreptitiously wiping away fresh tears.  

Logan bumps her knee with his own.  "So how did Vinnie take all of this?"  

She shakes her head.  "He seemed attentive enough when I was telling him about the Abigail Warner case.  It's public record that this isn't the first time I've been lured to a crime scene by a killer using technology.  I didn't mention the other two murders or the stalking."  

"Good." Keith says.  "Let's keep that to ourselves until we have proof connecting the cases."  

Veronica turns to Logan for his opinion, and he gives her a slow nod.  "I agree with your dad.  We should keep the focus off you and on the killer, where it belongs." 

"One thing doesn't make sense."  Keith looks thoughtful. "How did the perp make you kill Madison Sinclair? If she was already dead when you arrived, it sounds like a break in his M.O."

"It is." She passes a hand over her face. "I’ve thought on this all night.  Although I have a _different_ role in this murder, I'm still complicit. I chose the victim."

"How so?"

"I got into an ugly public altercation with Madison on Thursday about..." She pauses. _Well, this is awkward._ It's the worst possible time to burden her dad with the knowledge of her 10th grade rape.  Instead, Veronica recounts an abbreviated version of her juvenile ‘fight-over-a-boy’ with Madison. 

Logan, wisely, remains silent on her history with Madison, instead asking, "But how could this guy have known about that?"

"Let's just say word spread fast. By the time I arrived at the Neptunalia on Friday, Weevil, Wallace and Butters had each heard about the incident from different sources. Embellished versions, of course. Nothing stays secret in Neptune."

“That doesn’t explain Logan,” her dad says.  He cuts her off before she can insist, once again that he didn’t do it.  “If it went down like you described – you laughing at Madison’s threat to bid on him in the auction, even egging her on – wouldn’t you have come-across as rather ambivalent to him?” 

Logan pointedly looks away, either hurt by the question, or bracing himself for a painful answer. 

She sighs.  “Whether I’m ambivalent to Logan or not, I wasn’t going to let Madison Sinclair get under my skin.”

Keith shakes his head.  “That’s not what I’m asking.  The killer lured you to that crime scene.  Somehow, he must’ve known that Logan was somebody you would leave the house for at midnight.  Have you considered that this guy might be somebody you know?” 

Veronica considers the question.  “Anything’s possible, but that doesn’t feel right.  This person gets close to me, and he can slip into a crowd.  As for Logan…”  She opens the strongbox again, and waves a ribbon-tied stack of letters in the air. 

“What’re those?” 

Logan leans closer, peering over her shoulder for a better look.  “They’re old love letters.” A tentative smile forms on his lips and he speaks in a soft, disbelieving voice.  “From me.” 

“I used to keep them in a shoe box with other memorabilia, until one day I found them mixed-up and out of order.” 

Her dad reaches for the letters, but Veronica snatches her hand away.  “Um…private.” 

He gives her _the look_.  “That may well be, but I need to read them."

"Nope."

" _Veronica._ Anything written in those letters could be used against you.  We need to figure out what he knows, and you're likely to minimize the importance of things that seem obvious to you.  They need to be reviewed with a fresh set of eyes."  

"They're private."  Logan tugs the packet from her hand, hiding it behind his own back.  “But if somebody _must_ look through them, it's going to be me." 

She can't decide whether to thank him or steal the letters back.  Steamy reminders of their shared past can only make things around 5000% more awkward, but if it's between him and her father...?  No contest.  

Keith turns his glare on Logan.  "You couldn't have just sent her emails?"  

Veronica snorts.  "If I remember correctly, Logan considered email too sterile a medium for properly expressing his emotions.  Between us, he's a bit of a romantic.  Watched too many movies growing up or something. He would've taken clippings of my hair, if I'd allowed it."

"Hey! That just makes me sound creepy!"

Veronica gives him a reassuring pat on the knee.  

Her dad switches his line of questioning.  "Were the letters in date order?"

"No. Not really."  

"But you had them in some kind of order?" 

"Um..."

"You said you found them mixed-up and out of order."

"Oh yeah.  I said that, didn't I?'

Keith lets out an exasperated sigh.  "Veronica!  Be straight with me.  How did you know he'd read them?"

"Fine!"  She exhales an annoyed breath and speaks to the floor.  "If you must know, let's just say they were arranged by MPAA rating, and leave it at that."  

Her dad's brow furrows.  "I don't get it."  

_Trust me, you don't want to._

_Logan_ clearly gets it, evidenced from the way he's smoldering at her.  Her cheeks grow even warmer.  

Keith types into his cell phone, and then glances back up, rolling his eyes.  "What?  So you had them ordered them from PG to Rated R?"

_You sweet, summer child._

She doesn't correct him.  What could she possibly say?

_Sometimes, your only daughter likes to spend a little "alone time" with her friend, Mr. Buzzy.  And when erotic fiction isn't doing it, when porn leaves her cold, nothing gets her off harder and faster than letters from her college boyfriend describing his favorite things to do to her body, the things he INTENDS to do to her body, and the way it feels when she's doing dirty nasty things to HIS body._

"Logan?"

"Hmmm?"

"Please stop looking at Veronica that way.  She's still my daughter." 

"Sure thing, Mr. Mars."  Logan opens his jacket, his mouth forming a small, satisfied smile as he stuffs the letters in his inside pocket.  

   

* * *

Pages cling together in her magazine, and Mac smushes them with her thumb and index finger until she can catch the edge with her fingernail.  

It's 10:30 AM on Sunday, and she's been up for hours, long enough for a thirty-minute jog, an unhurried shower, and another losing battle with the waffle iron (why does it always overflow?).  Now, she's killing time while she works up her nerve.   

On the coffee table, Pixel plays on his see-saw toy, shifting his weight back-and-forth over the fulcrum in order to shake treat-pellets through the tiny hole. Widget sits on the couch, holding a Cheez-It between his front paws and nibbling from the top edge.

"So do I just call her and say: _'By_ _the way, remember that guy who forwarded your sex tape to a few hundred frat boys? Well he needs your help with a little blackmail situation'?"_

Pixel tilts his head and wiggles his whiskers by way of answer. She lightly scratches between his ears. "Lots of help you guys are."

Veronica's going to flip her shit, and she has every right to.  Hell, if Mac's own fate wasn't entwined with Dick's, she wouldn't even consider asking.

_Ovary up, girl.  You just brought her the number two hacker in the city, she's not going to say 'No'._

The call goes straight to voicemail.  She doesn't leave a message, instead trying the number for the Mars Residence before she loses her nerve.  

Veronica answers on the third ring.  "Hello?"

Mac's intuition bristles. Something's wrong.  "Veronica, it's me."

"Oh...hi. Guess last night's dose of Dick didn't kill you."

"I've had worse dates. Believe it or not, Dick's wasn't even the worst part of the evening." She flips one more page in her magazine, acknowledges she's not digesting the content, and tosses it on the coffee table. Pixel abandons his toy, running to inspect the glossy publication.

"What could be worse than being stuck with Dick?" Veronica muses, distractedly.

"Madison Sinclair. We had a little...tiff at the restaurant last night.  She tried to pull that 12-Steps apology B.S. on me, and I wasn't feeling very gracious.  On the plus side, she agreed to finally reach out to my parents.  I'm not going to hold my breath, but..." 

A laugh issues from the other end of the phone - somewhere between a choke and a sob - and it raises the tiny hairs on the back of her neck.

"Veronica, what is it?" Mac's chest tingles, and she doesn't want to know.

"Oh God, Mac. I don't know how to say this."

"Just spit it out."

Widget, her sensitive boy, picks up on her distress, drops his cracker, and burrows against her side. Mac draws him against her chest, stroking down his back with two fingers.

"I went to Madison's house last night. I was lured there."

"Oh no! Don't tell me she...Logan...Veronica, I saw him last night, and he was utterly miserable being stuck with her."

"No, Logan wasn't there. Madison was in bed, and she'd been..."

"What? You're scaring me!"

"She'd been stabbed."

Mac's heart freezes. "And...she's in the hospital being stitched up now?"

Veronica's answer takes too long. "I'm sorry, Mac."

 

* * *

 She doesn't remember disconnecting the call. Doesn't remember getting into her car or driving to her parents' house.

"Cindy? Since when have you started ringing the doorbell?"  Natalie MacKenzie answers the door in an awful gray puffer vest paired with a long-sleeved, maroon tee-shirt and faded jeans.  

"I rang the doorbell?" She doesn't remember doing that either.

Her mom pulls her inside, hands her an oversized bear claw, and launches into what's bound to be a twenty-minute spiel about their new dirt-phobic neighbors at the campground who hated the smell of wood fires and complained when Zeke howled at the moon.  " _I mean everybody encourages him to do it. They—”_

"Mom!" Mac cut her off. "We need to talk. Now. Where's Dad?"

"You hear that, Zeke?" Her mom crouches down, slipping half a bagel to the obese Basset Hound. "I guess Cindy is too mature now to be righteously offended in your honor."

"Mom! This is important!"

Natalie sighs. "Your dad's out back mowing the lawn. Why?"

"Can you..." Mac swallows. "Can you call him inside? Call Ryan too."

"If you insist." Natalie pauses, taking in her appearance.  "I really like your hair like this.  I'm glad you're growing it out."  

Her neck-length layered bob hasn't changed in a year, but this probably isn't the time to quibble about hair.  "Thanks, mom."  

Mac checks her gmail while she waits, deleting the stuff that slipped through the spam filters, and filing an e-bill.  The only thing of interest is a new email from Rick.     

 

 

From: cleverhack88@gmail.com

Subject: Halloween at your place?

To: cindy_mackenzie@casablancasinc.com

 

She's seen the gif a million times, yet, it brings a momentary smile to her face, when she needs it the most.  Rick is intelligent, not bad on the eyes, has killer biceps, and seems to like her for her brain. She should really take him up on dinner, already.

Zeke leans against her leg, giving her puppy-eyes in hopes of a handout.  Truthfully, the sad eyes are permanent, but then, so is the begging.  

She bends down and scratches that spot on his ribs that makes his butt shiver. "You need to go on a diet, big guy. Waddling is so unbecoming on a dog your age."

"Don't let your mean sister talk to you that way." Natalie returns to the kitchen, crouching down and making air-kisses at the dog. "Your dad will be right in. Are you going to tell me what this is about?"

Avoiding the question, Mac grabs a cup from the cabinet and fills it with water from the tap.  A sliding glass door opens on the other side of the house. "That's Dad, now."

Mac heads to the living room, followed by her mother. She's never felt comfortable in this room. Paneled floor-to-ceiling in dark wood, it has that mountain hunting lodge aesthetic. She can almost _feel_ winter in here, which can be attributed to either the central air or the news she's forced to deliver.

"Mackie! Good to see you. And it's not a holiday." Sam Mackenzie toes-off his grass-covered shoes, leaving them on the sisal doormat. He braces Mac by both arms, kisses her cheek, and then sits on the plaid couch, grabbing a remote control from the end table.

"Hey!"  Natalie tugs it from her husband's hand. "Cindy has to talk to us about something. You can veg out in front of the TV afterward."

Sam leans forward. "What's up, Mac? They finally give you that promotion you deserve so much?"

"Promotion?  No. I've already risen as high as I can."

"What's going on, Cyn? I was in the middle of something." Ryan drifts into the room. At fourteen, he's taller than her, blond and freckled, dressed in skinny jeans and a red sweater.

_When did he start looking so much like Madison?_

Long ago, She'd painstakingly studied her reflection, searching for traces of Ellen Sinclair. For Charles Sinclair. For Lauren.  She can't recall ever reversing the process. She'd never picked out her father's eyes and nose on Madison's face, her mother's mouth and anxious energy.

Mac stares at her feet, unsure how to begin this conversation.

Natalie's brow wrinkles. "Cindy? Has something happened?"

"Not to me." She exhales nervously, clutches her arms to her chest. "Madison Sinclair."

Natalie's hands tremble, and she carefully sets down her mug. "What happened, Cindy?" 

"She was found last night..." God, why can't she say the word? "Not...alive."

The atmosphere prickles with charged silence. They all stare at her, waiting.

Didn't they hear her? Oh God, is she going to have to say it all over again?

Natalie crumples.  It's as if every bone in her body liquefies. Sam catches her, pulls her to his chest, his own features vacant and slack, and Ryan looks like he's about to vomit.

 _I did this all wrong._ Mac's eyes grow hot, and guilt gnaws at her.  She should have broken it to them more gently?  

Natalie clutches her stomach.  She lifts her face to the ceiling, mouth wide open and throat convulsing, yet eerily silent.   

At her feet, Zeke raises his head and howls.

It's all too much.

Mac shoves out of her chair, and hurries to the front door.

She fights back nausea as images flash in her head: the box of photos in her mother's nightstand, the tears, the wistful glances.

Of course, they'd loved Madison all along, just as Ellen Sinclair had loved _her_.  How is this such a surprise?   

As she reaches for the doorknob, she comes to her senses.  What is she thinking?  She can't just drop a bombshell like that and split when the grief gets too uncomfortable.  

She heads into the kitchen instead.  Busies herself consolidating pastries into a single bag, stuffing it in the bread box, and wiping up the crumbs with a sponge. Her nose detects burnt coffee, so she pours it out and brews a fresh pot.  

_Caffeine won't replace their dead bio-daughter._

At some point, she's going to have to check in with Lauren and Charles. The police should have notified them by now.  They'd  _better_ have, because she can't stomach devastating a second family today.

She thanks her lucky stars that her bio-dad cancelled his trip for this weekend.  If Madison's murder had occurred one week earlier, Lauren would have been in that house.   _And might not be alive now._ The thought hits her like a physical blow.   

Lauren may have escaped physical danger, but how is she going to survive another loss so soon after Ellen's death?  

"You forgot this." Ryan shuffles into the room, holding out her purse. His face is anguished and his eyes are red.

"Thanks," she takes the bag. _You didn't even know her. You never knew her._

As if reading her mind, he whispers, "We were talking."

"What do you mean?"

"Madison and I. On a whim, I friend-requested her on Facebook and she accepted. We messaged back and forth a few times - not about the family or anything - I was going to help her out with this October fundraiser she was planning."

Mac's stomach falls away, and she burns in the space behind her eyes. Not only because her parents are devastated. Not because Ryan is hurting and Lauren will be. But because of what could have been.

For as long as she can remember, Madison was her enemy.  Madison got string quartets for her birthday, while Mac got pizza and Nascar.  Madison went dream vacations to Europe, while Mac got the campground.  Madison got a lifetime with Ellen, Lauren, and Charles, while Mac..didn't.

But it never had to be that way.  In another life, they could have been like sisters sharing two sets of parents and siblings.  Cordial, if not close.  

Spontaneously, she throws her arms around her little brother and for once, he returns the gesture, squeezing extra tight.

"Love you, Cyn."

"Love you too, kid." She tousles his artfully-messy hair, and turns away before she ends up crying along with him.

 

* * *

 

Midday sun bakes the top of his head, and a dozen cameras flash in his eyes, but Logan doesn't so much as twitch a muscle. When it comes to press conferences, this ain't his first rodeo. He's called at least a dozen, since taking office. None for murder though, so this is one for the scrapbooks. Between this, a dead ex-lover, and Veronica's presence in Neptune, today almost feels like a reunion tour of Growing-up-Echolls.  
  
_No.  Fuck that. I'm in charge now._

On any other occasion, he would've hosted this little shindig in the lobby of City Hall, where the dark wood, and mosaic floors lend an air of gravitas. But today's choice of venue was deliberate.

Confining reporters and their cameras to the courthouse steps below, works to exaggerate his formidability. In fact, every aspect of his appearance was calculated to send a message. His shirt and jacket are a size too small, emphasizing his muscle and power. He stands tall and rigid, chest prominent, and hands clasped behind his back.

He started the arduous process of rehabilitating his public image before even graduating college. So far, he's been largely successful in re-framing public perception of him away from his physicality (pretty boy, son of a movie star, violent animal who burned down the public pool), and towards his accomplishments - (philanthropist, protector of women, children, and the downtrodden, man on a mission to make Neptune better for all).

Today, he's bringing back the animal.  He's here to instill the fear of God in that psycho targeting Veronica.

Just thinking her name makes his heart ache.  

* * *

 She'd returned from Mac's phone call with downturned eyes and her elbows tucked tight against her sides.  Sensing her misery and guilt, Logan had opened his arms, and she hadn't hesitated to burrow into his side.  Her eyes fluttered closed, leaving him to update Keith on the implications of Madison's death on Mac and her family.  He'd stroked a pattern on the back of her hair until her breathing gradually slowed and lengthened.  

Easing her cheek from his chest, he'd lowered her down to the couch and covered her with a greenish blanket.  

Keith followed him outside, glancing back at the house over his shoulder.  "I'm going to kill this guy with my bare hands."  

Logan sighed and leaned against his car.  "How about we try handling this through official channels before resorting to bare-knuckle death matches?"  The last thing this town needed was Vigilante Mars. 

Fists clenched and cheeks mottled, hot righteous rage rolls off Keith Mars in waves.  "Official channels?  You want me to put my faith in Vinnie Van Lowe?"

Logan's own anger had been gathering inward, coalescing into a diamond-hard knot at the center of his chest.  Whatever intel that freak gathered on him would point to Logan Echolls - Impulsive Hothead.  Quick to anger, quick to lash out.  That's where he had the advantage.  What few people grasped was, the angrier he got, the colder it burned. Fury only narrowed his focus.  Made him calm, and deliberate. Ruthless.  By that point, he was sub-arctic, already calculating creative ways to to nail that psycho. 

"No.  I want you to put your faith in _ME_.  If Vinnie can't get the job done, I'll find someone who can."  

Keith stared at him in that hard, probing way that used to intimidate him.  Not anymore, he met the gaze head-on, refusing to budge.  

"Fine, we'll do this your way.  For now."  Keith took a visible breath. "Listen, I know Veronica isn't your responsibility, but if you still care about her the way I suspect you do, would you be willing to split the cost of a bodyguard with me?"  

A shudder ran through Logan's entire body, and the trademark Psycho violin-screeches blared in his head.  "No.  Absolutely not."  

"So much for—”

"You think I don't want to?" Logan interrupted.  "I don't know how or why, but Veronica gave me her trust this morning, and that means everything. The quickest way for me to lose it again, would be to make decisions for her.  I already lived this nightmare back when she was chasing after the Hearst rapist, and it didn't end well."   

"We can't just do NOTHING."  Keith's voice rasped, as if he was gulping back tears.  "She's in danger."  

"And that's just the beginning of her problems.  I'm pretty sure your daughter has PTSD."

"No."  Keith shook his head in denial. "She's just stressed.  Understandably so."  

It's a lot more serious than that, but Logan needed to get back to the station and handle Vinnie.  

He dropped a hand on Keith's shoulder. "Meet me at my office tomorrow.  I'll have Gia clear my schedule, and we'll go pick out the most state-of-the-art security system available - motion-detectors, cameras, the works.  My treat.  For tonight, I'll park a deputy out front to keep an eye on the house.  Nobody is going to get to Veronica."

Keith Mars was a proud man, and he clearly felt uncomfortable with the notion, but he met Logan's eyes and held out his hand to shake.  "Okay.  I'll be there.  And thank you."  

"Not a problem.  In the meantime, it's Veronica's birthday. I already had something in the works for her, but I'm going to need your help setting it up."  

 

* * *

 

"Duhhh dun. Duhhh dun."  Van Lowe moves up on Logan's right side, teeth bared in a smarmy grin, and humming the opening bars of the Jaws Theme.  "Will you look at those sharks circling?  They've caught the scent of blood."       

"Not yet, but keep talking."  

"Duhhh dun. duhhh dun.  Duh-dun-dun-dun dun-dun-dun-dun dun-dun-dun-dun-dun dun-dun-dun-dun." Vinnie lets out a low whistle.  "They're going to eat you alive." 

"Hmm...well then maybe I should toss them out some chum."  Logan gives Vinnie a pointed look.  "Perhaps a story about a sheriff, a violent Fitzpatrick led away in handcuffs, and a missing arrest report.  I'm wavering on whether to suggest the the headline 'VINNIE SPECIAL'  or to just leave it as subtext.  What do you think?"  

"Weird.  Sounds like a clerical error to me."  

" _Right_."  Logan glances at his watch.  "Well, it's time.  Just...try to look competent, and let me do all the talking."  

"I wouldn't dream of stealing your thunder."  Vinnie says, humming a few more notes under his breath.  

They move together up to the podium, while behind them, the assembled deputies spread out wide in a show of department solidarity. 

Logan powers on the microphone, and speaks.  "Good afternoon.  I'd like to thank you all for being here."  

He picks up a white index card on the podium, scanning the bullet points while the hum of voices slows, quiets, and finally, ceases.  

"At 11:55 last night, the Sheriff's Department was called to a Neptune Hills residence.  There, they discovered the body of the homeowner, Madison Sinclair, in her bed with multiple stab wounds.  Ms. Sinclair was positively ID'd and was pronounced dead at the scene by the Balboa County Coroner's office.  There were no signs of forced entry, and at this time, the assailant is still unknown."    

"Madison was twenty-six at the time of her death, and is survived by her father, Charles Sinclair, of Sinclair and Ives, and her sister, Lauren.  I've spoken personally, with the victim's family this morning, and they're asking that you respect their privacy in their time of grief.  They do intend to issue a statement, once they've had time to mourn."  

Logan pauses long enough to make eye contact with each of the reporters.  "The Sinclair family's tragedy is also a great loss for Neptune.  Madison will be remembered for her tireless work on behalf of the Neptune Philanthropic Society, where her leadership in fundraising and event planning brought in _millions_ of dollars for those most in need.  This weekend's bachelor auction alone, broke all previous records.  So a year from now, when an underprivileged child paddles out on his first surfboard, or gets invited to attend basketball camp, when a blind person receives their first seeing-eye dog, when wives and children have a safe refuge from which to escape their abusers, and yes, when the Neptune Food Bank serves dinner...that will be Madison's legacy living on."  

His throat constricts, and it feels something like grief. It doesn't seem fair. Of all the 09ers from high school, Madison had put the most effort into turning her life around in positive ways.  It was something they had in common.  

 _Fuck.  Just when I was starting to like her.  Even admire her._  

He takes a moment to breathe, and then claps a hand on Vinnie's shoulder.     

"Sheriff Van Lowe and the passionate deputies behind me have my full confidence.  I've spoken at-length with each of them, and they're all committed to bringing Madison's killer to justice.  To aid in that, I'm authorizing an increase in budget and man-hours until Madison's killer has been apprehended."  

Logan stares into the nearest video camera.  

"But we're going to need your help.  If you have any information about the perpetrator of this crime, if you've seen anything unusual at all - maybe a person or vehicle who doesn't belong, I'm asking you to call the number on your screen.  The Sinclair family is offering a twenty-five thousand dollar reward, and I'm personally going to match it.  That's fifty-thousand dollars, total, for information leading to the arrest and conviction of Madison's killer."  

Voices rise in the crowd, and he waits for them to quiet.  

"One last note of business.  In the spirit of honoring one of Madison's last requests, I'm proposing we rename Goodman Park, located at the intersection of Grande and Underwood, to the Ellen Sinclair Memorial Park.  I plan to put this to a vote before the council on Monday.  Now I have time time to take a few questions."  

He takes a deep breath, preparing for an onslaught.  

_Mr. Echolls, Supervisor Echolls!  Mr. Mayor.  Mayor Echolls!_

Logan points to a redhead in her mid-thirties.  "Ann."  

"Supervisor Echolls, can you tell us how the body was discovered?"  

"We're currently withholding that information to ensure the safety of the witness.  If that changes, I'll let you know."  He nods at a lanky black man.  "Andre."

"Do you have a time of death?  And, as a follow-up, when was the victim last seen alive?"  

"As part of my auction package, Madison and I had dinner last night at Taste.  We left the restaurant at around 9:30 PM.  I assume she headed straight home.  Her estimated time of death was between 10:30 and 11:30 PM.  Next question...Martina."

"Rumor has it, there was bad blood between you and Madison Sinclair, and your reaction to her winning Friday's Bachelor Auction bid seemed to support that.  Care to comment?"  

 _Shit._  Logan shakes his head adamantly.  "There was no bad blood between me and the victim.  I admit, I avoided her, over a college misunderstanding, but I never wished her any harm."  Reporters shout questions, but he holds up a hand.  "While it's no secret that I wasn't looking forward to spending time with Madison, our dinner turned out better than expected.  We talked and cleared the air, and found some points of commonality.  By the time we parted, I felt like we were forming a tentative friendship.  In fact, I'd already agreed to begin the process of changing the name of Goodman Park."  

Logan points to tall man, balding with sad, down-turned eyes.  "Bob?"

"Can you tell us what the misunderstanding was about?"  

"No. It's ancient history."  Logan scans the assembled group of reporters.  Reluctantly, he nods at a curvy blonde, with angelic blue eyes and thick lashes.  "Ginny?"  

He'd dated Ginny Reed for a few weeks last Spring, ultimately deciding there wasn't enough of a connection to take things further. Now, her lips curl up in a cat-who-ate-the-canary smile, and he regrets calling on her.  

"My sources tell me the body was discovered by none other than Neptune's former teen detective, Veronica Mars.  Additionally, I'm told she arrived at the scene in a jealous rage, believing the victim was having an affair with you."

 _Oh fuck._  Logan lifts a brow.  "Sources, huh?"  

Ginny's eyes flick to a space behind his right shoulder - only for a moment, but it's enough.  

Logan covers the mic with his palm, leans towards Vinnie, and whispers, "Tad Wilson needs to learn what happens to leakers.  Graveyard shift?"  

Vinnie's oily smile doesn't slip, but he nods.  

Uncovering the mic, Logan answers, "As I've already stated, we're withholding the identity of the witness.  As for the rest, it's categorically untrue."  

"Mr. Mayor, is Veronica Mars your new girlfriend?"  

He sighs.  "Veronica Mars was my girlfriend for a few months back in 2006.  Currently, she's one of my oldest and dearest friends."  At least since Duncan turned into a paranoid asshat.     

"Supervisor Echolls, is Veronica Mars the blonde you were seen with at Neptunalia?"  

"This is California.  Everyone's blonde.  Veronica is one of a dozen of blonde constituents I spoke to at Neptunalia.  Now, does anyone have any questions related to the _case_?" He calls on a middle-aged man with glasses.  "Lloyd Blankenship." 

Lloyd holds out a voice recorder.  "Do we know  _why_ Ms. Sinclair was murdered?  Should the citizens of Neptune be on their guard?"  

Fuck yeah, the citizens should be on their guard.  At the same time, he can't start a panic.  

"We haven't determined a motive for Madison's murder.  Currently, there's no evidence of a threat to the public at large.  But..." He holds up a hand.  "...as a general rule?   _Absolutely_ be on your guard.  It's no secret that Neptune has a higher psychopath-per-capita average than most small towns.  Half of them were in my family or inner-circle, I'm ashamed to say.  Things have been quiet since Sheriff Van Lowe took office, but if you want my advice?  Lock your doors.  Text a friend when you arrive home.  Pay attention to your surroundings.  Notice the people around you.  Be vigilant.  Be safe.  Don't wait until the next Boogeyman comes along.  Make safety part of your routine now."    

A rounded man with curly dark hair asks, "Mayor Echolls!  Was Madison Sinclair an Aaron Echolls fan?  Did they know each other?"  

 _Un-fucking-real._ "Yes, but my father has an airtight alibi.  At the time of the murder, he was in an urn in some dusty storage locker."  

That's it, he's done.  "I have time for one more question."  

Pretending to scan the crowd, Logan's gaze settles on a short blonde woman.  "Kylie, what's your question?"  

Kylie Marker grins and gives him a saucy wink.  

Dammit.  He's going to have to find a less obvious plant.    

"Logan, is there anything you'd like to say directly to the killer?"  

"Yes."  He makes a beckoning motion, urging the cameras to zoom-in.    

“To the monster who did this.  You came into _my_ town, brutally murdered one of my citizens and terrorized another. This is now personal." Staring into each camera in-turn, he deploys his scary smile.  The one that always makes people take a step back.  "My new mission in life is to find you.  No matter how long it takes, or how much it costs.  My resources are limitless.  There _is_ no safe place for you to hide.  No distance too far to give chase.  You will be hunted like the rabid dog that you are, and you will pay severely."  

He settles on Kylie's cameraman, and silently stares into the lens, hard and unblinking.  One second, two seconds. He stares until everything goes silent and people begin squirming.  

"Thank you for your time."  He turns off the mic, spins around and heads back inside.  

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(FanArt) Neptune by SilverLining2k6](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11878293) by [AlinaSorokina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlinaSorokina/pseuds/AlinaSorokina)




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